


La voix d’un ange

by Fallowfield, Tripower



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, All-Woman Cast, F/F, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Love Letters, Mystery, Slow Burn, Takarazuka?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13476156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallowfield/pseuds/Fallowfield, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripower/pseuds/Tripower
Summary: Late 19th / Early 20th century, Paris.Alchemy is the devil’s work. But opera? Everyone likes opera.





	1. Prologue

  
The night was perfectly clear, except for where the stars were obscured by the thick smoke spiraling up from the darkened street. It was an experience that was almost religious in nature, drowned in a solemn silence, like the viewing of a martyr’s funeral pyre.

The villagers did not know where the target of their arson had fled, but by now they no longer cared. They stood around in their reverie, looking to the sky, then to each other. His dark works were destroyed.

Now that their purpose was fulfilled, the passion quickly faded. They lingered for a moment, looking for their victim, but there was no sign of him. This was good enough. Soon they dispersed, letting the ash blend into the darkness.

Light footsteps echoed through the alleyway as she fled. She clutched her arm to her side, her fingers flexing painfully. The streets were deserted, but she tried to slow her gait to minimize suspicion. Generally terror would boil up through the chest, but she only felt cold stone. She had long known this day was coming.

Suddenly her arm seized with a wild spasm, and she veered sideways, striking her shoulder hard against the wall. She tried to muffle her low cry. Behind her, a door opened.

“Monsieur, are you all right?”  
The woman’s voice was so beautiful and gentle, she turned to look. Shadow obscured the woman’s face, but the light from behind her illuminated her golden hair like a halo.

She did not intend to answer, but she could not deny this woman. She hadn’t spoken in days, but the rough texture of her voice preserved her anonymity. “Yes, I…”

The woman saw how she clutched her arm and stepped outside the threshold.  
“Let me take a look.”

“N-...no!” She resisted the magnetic pull of the light, stumbling away into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The townspeople have always thought the alchemist was a man because of how ambiguously she dresses.


	2. The Understudy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opéra is preparing for its first performance, and the lead soprano has fallen sick, so Madame Ziegler is chosen as her understudy.

L’Opéra, newly constructed, stood proudly at the end of Rue Garnier like the crown jewel of the district. The ashes of the fire were buried under pristine white marble, as if they lay in the distant past. Many of the homes lining the now-majestic street had been remodeled and repainted to reflect a new image of wealth. 

The public had been waiting with bated breath for the first performance. The newspapers chattered with rumors and excitement, especially about a newcomer to the opera scene, the fresh-faced blonde soprano chosen to be Carlotta’s understudy. And the rumor today was that Carlotta, the leading soprano, had fallen quite ill.

She was a vision of beauty atop the stage, radiant as if she had been painted there. The blonde did betray an element of anxiety, however, when she looked down and touched her toe tips together.  
  
The woman at the piano sensed her nervous energy. “Angela, just pretend you are serenading your Amélie.” She gestured to the first row of the audience, where an elegant woman sat, watching the proceedings with her sharp eyes. Her stoic expression softened as Angela’s eyes were directed toward her, and the blonde’s lips turned up and she straightened.

When given her cue, Angela began to sing. The large, magnificent auditorium was filled with her voice. A spell of blissful paralysis felt upon the spectators and the empty room.

After the blonde finished her song, Amélie stood and applauded her, followed by her associate Olivia, who had been sitting at her side.

Angela smiled and covered her mouth bashfully, giving a shallow bow by dipping her chin. Her movement was greatly hindered by her sumptuous costume.

The piano player turned to her. “We shouldn’t have any problem tomorrow night, even with Carlotta ill.”

Angela returned the compliment with a warm smile. “I hope so.”

  
x-x-x-x-x  


  


“I told you that you were a good match.” Olivia’s voice hovered by Angela’s ear as she deconstructed the magnificent gown. She was Amélie’s associate by trade, but she had a talent for constructing costumes.

Angela laughed lightly. “I just remember you speaking in that weird voice about the ghost.”

“That was me trying to mimic his booming voice,” Olivia said as she loosened the cords of the corset. She sat up suddenly. “Do you think he was listening to you today?”

“Goodness Olivia, don’t be ridiculous.” Angela did not expect that her assistant would immediately engross herself back into her wild theories. She already had to listen to them all morning. Olivia seemed to know every rumor in Paris about the ghost that haunted this new Opéra.

“He had to have heard you! He would have noticed anybody in the dressing rooms and auditorium. Especially your strong and beautiful voice.”

“Olivia--”

“I know you don’t believe in him, but nothing can explain all these occurrences! And the accidents during construction.”

“Olivia….” Angela looked at her condescendingly.

“Okay, okay. I just think that--well, I don’t think he would have any complaints.”

Angela snorted.

“It’s such a dream, though! You will be the star on the opening night of such an iconic venue.” Olivia finally loosened the corset.

“It is….” the blonde answered dreamily.  
  
Olivia stepped around to face her. “And there is nowhere more suitable than the gorgeous soon-to-be vicomtesse to showcase her talent.”

Angela blushed. “Thank you Olivia. Do you think Amélie liked it?” She had a hard time reading her new fiancée’s reactions, but she figured that she would be able to better intuit them with time. They had only recently met and had been promised to each other. Olivia, on the other hand, had long known Amélie.

“Oh yes, she was very impressed!” Olivia smiled widely, talking so quickly Angela didn’t know when she breathed. “I know when she’s impressed and it’s very rare and exciting. She told me she’s looking forward to tomorrow.”

“I’m so glad,” Angela answered, finally able to inhale fully with the removal of the corset.

“Oh wait a moment, I forgot my comb. I’ll be right back!” Olivia set the garment down and strode out the door.

Angela sat patiently as she waited for Olivia. It was dark now, and everybody else had left. She was grateful that her assistant stayed late with her as she practiced long after the rehearsal ended. Her anxiety was momentarily sated with practice.

It was quiet now, and the walls seemed to be breathing. Angela suddenly felt a presence. “Olivia?”

But no voice answered, only the swish of fabric. Angela held her breath for a moment, her skin growing cold.

After a moment, she heard a shriek from outside the door. The blonde stood up and cracked the door open, looking down the dimly lit corridor. She could see a dark silhouette at the end of the hall that was clearly not Olivia’s-- tall and very thin. Taller even than Amélie, who towered over both of them. This person also moved differently than Olivia did, with an almost graceful glide. But as soon as Angela blinked, she could no longer see it. 

She opened the door and stepped out, but as soon as she did, Olivia bumped into her, almost sending her falling to the floor.

Olivia shrieked again, scrambling away from her.

“It’s just me!” Angela said as she sat up. “What’s wrong, Olivia?”

“I-It’s the ghost, Ang… I saw him.”

“Oh Olivia….” Angela slowly stood up.

“I swear! Someone was there!”

“Olivia--no, actually, I believe you. I think I saw him too.”

Olivia’s look of concern didn’t leave her face, but her lips turned up in gratitude.

The sound of a door closing echoed across the silent building, and the two of them looked at each other in shock.

“We should go home,” Angela whispered.

Olivia nodded. “He should be scared away when more people are here. Or. At least if Amélie’s here.” She smiled at the blonde.

Angela huffed amusedly, but was unable to slow her racing heart. “I guess so.”


	3. Opening Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela’s debut.
> 
> This chapter is for Gray, aka Multikicker.

Everybody's dinner guests chattered and chattered. Angela’s performance had been earth shattering, and everyone was awestruck as she was lowered from the ceiling in the climactic scene, radiant in her robes and halo. She took a breath like it was nothing, then hit the high key. 

A stupefied silence filled the auditorium as she came down from it, and her counterpart almost forgot the next line. Every song of hers enraptured the audience, who listened to her every breath. But when the curtain fell, the room roared with applause, everyone standing to greet the new star.

x-x-x-x-x

“Carlotta could probably hear you from her house,” Olivia muttered into her ear as she helped remove Angela’s costume.

“I don’t have anything against her!” Angela answered. “She’s a great inspiration!”

“I still think you should be the star. And I know Amélie thinks so.” Olivia grinned and bubbled many more compliments the rest of her transition.

x-x-x-x-x

Olivia refused to remove the halo when changing her dress, so Angela found herself gracing the after party still in the guise of an angel. She looked around the crowded room for Amélie. She wanted to appear by her side.

There was so much activity that it would have been impossible to find someone, but the vicomte almost seemed to emanate light from her shoulders like the heroine of a fairy tale. She always immediately commanded attention, even at her most stoic. 

Amélie stood in her violet coat and ruffled shirt, talking with a few other guests. She had always been inherently a public figure: quiet, but always kept a good, if distant, rapport. Her expression was strong, chin high and mouth firm.

Angela made her way through the crowd, but her instant fame and conspicuous costume led nearly every person she encountered to stop and congratulate her. When she finally reached Amélie, the tall woman bent and they exchanged bises.

Amélie straightened. “Congratulations, Angela.” She regarded her with narrow but pleasant eyes.

Her compliment was simple but carried a lot of weight. Angela felt nervous in her gaze, almost more than she did standing on stage. “Thank you.”

The vicomte’s eyes wrinkled amusedly at the edges, lingering on Angela for an extra moment. The blonde could feel them on her as she looked away. She knew what she felt was an admiration, but it was both that of esteem and intimidation.

“S’cuse me.” 

Angela was grateful for the distraction and turned towards the petite woman standing beside her. She almost didn’t recognize her, standing here dressed so sharply and with so somber an expression. This face belonged beaming on the front page of a newspaper, and Angela recognized her even though she lived a country away. Angela had never heard her voice before, but this woman always had a snappy inspirational quip to share with the reporters as she leaned against the metal of her aeroplane. This time, however, her signature English accent was present, but the energy was not.

“You’re Captain Oxton, right?” Angela brightened and clasped her hands together. “I had no idea you’d be here! It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She bent to kiss her cheeks.

“Ah, Lena….please.” She smiled, but it wasn’t the smug grin in the papers. It was gentle and subtle, but bright in its own way, even through her anxiety. “And Madame Ziegler, I’m the one who’s honored to meet you.”

Angela couldn’t help but flush as the handsome pilot complimented her. “I-I’m not sure about that, but thank you so much.” She bent her head and smiled. “And please, call me Angela.”

“Thank you, Angela, but I insist. I’ve never heard a voice quite like that, and I’ve seen this opera a million times! I was shocked, first, to hear that you’re the understudy, and second, that I’d never heard of you before.”

Angela was speechless for a moment. “....Thank you so much! I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

“I swear. You could mend any trauma, dear.” Lena’s voice had grown softer and more earnest. “I’m gonna write and demand your promotion.” She took Angela’s hand into her own and kissed it. “I havta hear you sing again.”

x-x-x-x-x

Angela received many compliments that evening, but no words stuck with her as much as those of the dashing pilot. 

For the most part, she stayed by Amélie’s side, but she got the impression the vicomte was stonier even then her usual persona at formal events like this. Angela had only been to a few dinners with her before, mostly around the announcement of their betrothal. Amélie was always very polite and composed, but there seemed to be more to it today. She was pleasant and deferred to her, and Angela realized their roles were flipped tonight. Usually the guests were primarily addressing Amélie. Maybe it was just the situation. She had no idea how to ask, though. She couldn’t ever read the internal monologue of her beau.

As the evening came to a close, the vicomte bowed to Angela and offered to escort her home. The blonde smiled and took her arm as they walked outside.

She decided to take a risk: “Are you alright, Amélie?”

The tall woman hid her flicker of surprise pretty well. “Yes.” She looked down at Angela. “I hope I didn’t disrupt anything.”

“Oh no, no, you didn’t at all. You were lovely, as always.” Angela felt awful for causing Amélie to worry. “I was just making sure….”

“That’s kind of you.” The vicomte answered simply, her voice honest but flat.

Angela cast her eyes down, not sure how to answer. They walked the rest of the way in silence, and they kissed each other goodbye at Angela’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It gets more interesting.)


	4. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela receives a strange gift.

When she was no longer in her fencing stance, the regal woman stood a full six feet tall. Angela watched her set her epee aside and peel off her armor as she strode back to her. Every motion was powerful, yet incredibly delicate, even after she retired from sparring.

“You vanquished them for sure.”

Amélie cut her eyes to the side, but by now Angela knew it was a sign of humility. “Maybe it was you singing the battle hymn for me.”

Angela blushed and covered her mouth with a gloved hand, speechless. The vicomte always arrested her. 

Amélie smiled at her for a moment, then her eyes flicked to the side. “Did you want to see Carlotta’s performance?”

“I would love to!”

“Is tomorrow too soon?”

“No, I think that would be fine.” Angela smiled, happy to be on Amélie’s arm again.

“I’ll arrange for it.”

Angela uncrossed her legs, then stood to return to the house with her beau.

Olivia was waiting outside Amélie’s office. Angela remembered that the vicomte had told her she had an appointment. Designing for the new opera was a novel development for Olivia. She spent most of her time overseeing Amélie’s winery, the Château Guillard. Amélie held her family’s tradition in high importance, but did not have the time to supervise it personally.  
The tall woman bent to kiss Angela, then strode into the office.

Olivia turned to Angela quickly. “Angie! Look what I found!” She was bursting with excitement, but spoke in a hushed voice. She presented an envelope to Angela, on which someone had written “ _À mon ange_ ” in black script.

Angela’s eyes widened as she took it. “Where did you find this, Olivia?”

“I went to your dressing room today to collect the costume for Carlotta, and I saw it tucked under the door.” Olivia was having difficulty containing her excitement.

“Strange.... I wonder what it could be about.” Angela turned it over in her hands.

Olivia looked to the door. “Aah, I must go now, but I am really curious what it says!” She kissed Angela’s cheek, then scurried into the office.

Angela stood, somewhat in shock, examining the envelope. The paper was of high quality, but unlike any she had seen before. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. She could tell the person could ink beautifully, but this particular phrase seemed written shakily or hurriedly. She slid her finger beneath the seal and pulled out the letter.

“ _À mon ange,_

_You surprised me this night. I never knew anybody could walk through these doors and make me feel as if they belong there. Everyone has always been so rude and raucous and malignant._  
_But you, you are different. You are sent directly from heaven. I wish you could grace the stage every night, because with the utmost ease, you shine brighter than the grandest star. Yet you hold the softest light._  
_Mon ange. Mon ange._  
_I cannot accept any other than you. Your voice heals every pain and doubt in all who hear. It is your gift. You fill them with life and vigour. You can bring them back from the brink, even if they’ve been there for a long time._  
_Please come back for me. Please let me see your face again, hear your voice again. You have my heart._  
_I’ll be here._

_With all my love,  
La personne qui attend votre retour_ "

Angela blinked, knitting her brows for a moment, turning red. She turned the page over, then back again. The words were so heavy, but so sudden. She didn’t recognize the handwriting at all and couldn’t find any clue who it was from. The comment about healing reminded her of Captain Oxton, but she couldn’t imagine the jaunty woman writing in this tone. It was a mystery.

She tried to brush it off. “Ouah, that was fast. A fan after only one performance,” she said to herself. But the words stuck with her. Nobody had ever written her something like that. It was like she really was an angel. Really was able to sing and heal them like in some fairy tale.

The door to the office opened. The vicomte paused and her eyes widened. “Angela. I thought you would have gone home. I apologize if I made you wait for me.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry! I didn’t realize how long I’ve stayed.” She lowered the letter to her side, drawing attention away from it.

Olivia emerged behind Amélie. “Ah, Angela!” She visibly caught herself before inquiring about the letter, but it clearly took a lot of effort. “Would you like some wine?”

Angela sighed in relief. “Yes, I would,” she said, and Olivia went to get her a glass, smiling knowingly at her as she passed.


	5. Carlotta's Debut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela views Carlotta's performance.

Olivia sidled up to Angela in the lobby of the operahouse. “You look nice today.” She smirked, looking at her from the side. 

“Thank you!” Angela answered, beaming. 

“You and Amélie will impress everyone sitting up there. Queen and king.” Olivia glanced over, starry-eyed, at Amélie talking to some spectators.

Angela laughed. She would, in fact, admit that she felt like royalty, going to sit up in Amélie’s balcony box, wearing her white silk gown and elbow-length gloves. She was excited that her beau owned a portion of such a beautiful place.

“Before you go…” Olivia lowered her voice dramatically but almost danced in excitement. “What did the note say?”

“Olivia!” Angela giggled. “It was just someone who enjoyed my performance.”

Olivia snorted. “Angela, there has to be more than that. First of all, they had to have snuck back to the dressing room to deliver it. And second, did you look at it! It’s, like, dripping with intrigue.” Her eyes sparkled.

“I guess it was rather strange….” Angela tapped her chin with her gloved hand. “But that is ultimately what it said. And they said I was their angel.”

Olivia clasped her hands together and gasped. “Angela, that’s different! That’s….romantic!”

Angela blushed. “I suppose so.”

“Do you have any idea who it’s from?”

“No, I don’t at all.”

“A mysterious admirer….” Olivia stared downwards, grinning, turning over her fingers and musing.

Angela laughed. “It’s kind of lost on me, though.”

Olivia shrugged. “Might as well enjoy the attention.” Her eyes were still glittering as she thought of the possibilities.

x-x-x-x-x

Every seat in the auditorium was filled. The new opera was already headline news, but Angela’s performance ensured that everyone was discussing it. Tonight Carlotta was returning, finally recovered from her illness. She had only, in utter disbelief, requested her understudy for the opening night because her voice had been entirely gone.

Carlotta had made her name in Rome but had been fed up with sharing starring roles, so the attraction of being the only head soprano was what brought her to Paris. The illness stealing her debut had put her in a foul mood for the entire week, Olivia had told Angela. Angela felt bad for her. “It was supposed to be her night,” she had responded, much more concerned than Olivia had been.

Angela sat on the edge of her seat, eagerly anticipating the show, but regularly looked to the side and measured Amélie’s demeanor. She would pause and adjust to match her. She couldn’t read the vicomte’s mood. Was she excited to see the show? Or was it more of a social obligation? Angela assumed she didn’t have these constant questions plaguing her mind, which would allow her to maintain such a calm expression.

She decided to take a risk. She lifted her gloved arm and gently laid her hand on top of Amélie’s, which rested on the armrest between them. She felt the other woman inhale in response, then stiffen. She squeezed Angela’s hand once with her dark glove, but retired her arm to her lap. Angela was disappointed, but she realized how forward she had been.

To her relief, the lights began to dim for the show. Angela was excited when Carlotta finally emerged in the third scene. She knew she would look so beautiful in the divine costume, so poised and experienced in the opera. Angela had sung before, but it was only in the the last few days she’d been in this setting. She imagined that Carlotta’s burst of applause will be even louder than the thunderous fanfare she had received the other night.

Angela was unaware of the anxious energy in the room until much later, she was so absorbed in the performance of such an icon. But eventually even Amélie’s eyes darted to the side, and Angela sensed an ounce of restlessness in her. The blonde followed her gaze. She saw the vicomte blink and look back at the stage, but Angela kept staring into the dark hallway behind the box. She thought she could just make out the silhouette of somebody just beyond the doorway. She squinted, unsure, but her attention was drawn back to the stage as Carlotta’s voice intensified. Angela looked again, but there was no sign of the shadow. Angela was distracted then because after a few more lines, Carlotta built up to the high note.

Angela gasped, starstruck. It seemed so seamless and reached with ease. But as she watched, there was a sudden clap, then all the light in the auditorium was extinguished by what seemed to be a cold wind. The crowd rumbled and cried in response, startled.

The vicomte straightened beside her, snapped into alertness. Angela just froze, but tucked herself closer to Amélie. Her beau remained stiff, scanning the room as best she could through the darkness. The audience had quieted somewhat, just murmurs.

“Carlotta is done here.” A deep but smooth voice spoke calmly, but it carried across the entire auditorium, sending the audience into silence. “This is her last and only performance in my opera.”

There was something vaguely familiar about it, but Angela couldn’t place it. She just kept thinking of the figure she saw the other night, and what Olivia would say: it’s the ghost.

Amélie stood to try and locate the voice. But before she could do much, the lights flickered back on. And nobody seemed out of place. The vicomte pressed her lips together, her eyes flashing, but she couldn’t locate the perpetrator. She gradually relaxed, but was irritated about her inability to conserve the order within the operahouse. She looked at Angela, then sat down.

Carlotta and the others on the stage reeled from the shock of the sudden disruption of their song, but they didn’t know what else to do besides skip the rest of the song and limp through the rest of the performance. Angela saw that Carlotta was very pale after that foretelling, and she didn’t blame her. She would be, too.


	6. More Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some correspondence.

“Ang!” Olivia called, rushing out of the back hallway and into the lobby. The last few visitors were making their way out of the opera, and for the last hour or so, Angela had politely stood by Amélie’s side as she bid everyone farewell.

A few people had turned from the vicomte and addressed the blonde, saying they enjoyed Carlotta’s performance, but were hoping they would see Madame Ziegler perform again soon. She had bowed to them and thanked them, saying she hopes so, too.

Captain Oxton had approached her, and Angela had been rather surprised at her state. She looked tired and ashen, which was something Angela had assumed was impossible on her youthful face. The pilot was polite, though, and smiled up at her. “It’s lovely to see you. I see that Carlotta is back.” She glanced to the side. “She’s good. But yer gonna sing again soon, right?” Her smile was sweet, but the longer Angela thought about it, the more she thought that something in her eyes seemed desperate.

“Ah, I’m sure I will, Lena! I enjoy it.”

Lena smiled wider, laughing briefly. “I havta hear you sing again. There’s nothing like it. You make everything better.” Her eyes shone, transparent for a moment. Completely honest. Then a warm smile spread across her face. She stood on her toes and kissed Angela’s cheek. “See you soon, luv.”

The rest of the evening Angela barely said anything more than formalities as she stood with the vicomte. But upon hearing Olivia’s call she sighed, glad for the excuse to duck away, and approached her.

“The ghost, Angela!” Olivia could hardly contain herself. “He was there!”

“I know. I heard it. Everyone did.”

“But he was backstage! I know he was! I think I saw him walking down the hallway.”

“Really! Did you see who it could be?”

Olivia frowned. “No, just a shadow again. I couldn’t follow well because I was carrying that enormous dress.” She brightened suddenly. “But guess what?”

After a pause, Angela realized Olivia was waiting for her to answer. “What?”

“He’s the one who left the letter at the dressing room.”

“What!” Angela covered her mouth because she had exclaimed louder than she meant to. She glanced over at Amélie, then back to Olivia, lowering her voice. “How do you know?”

Olivia smirked smugly and presented another letter to Angela. “This.” It looked the same as the first, nice paper with “ _À mon ange_ ” somewhat calligraphed but also somewhat scrawled. Angela took it and pulled out the letter.

“ _À mon ange,_  
_Why didn’t you appear tonight? Why did you let her take your rightful place?_  
_You take away my pain. The pain I’ve had for years and years._  
_It’s peculiar. I cannot explain._  
_You fill me with golden light._  
_But this imposter. She makes me writhe in agony._  
_Why would you leave me?_  
_Only you belong in my opera. Please come back to me._  
_You can be the goddess here._  
_I promise. All eyes will always be on you. Who wouldn’t want it that way?_  
_Please let me see your face again, hear your voice again. You have my heart._  
_I’ll be here._

 _With all my love,  
La personne qui attend votre retour_ ”

Angela read the page, her face growing red. The first had been heavy handed, but the second was all that more intense.

Olivia’s smile just kept growing as she watched. “I don’t think ‘e’s gonna leave you alone.”

Angela stared at the paper, puzzled. Her face was still flushed. “I guess I’ll write back. I’m flattered, but….” There it was again. Her healing voice, just as Lena had said. But this person seemed more like a dark ribbony poetry, which didn’t seem like the light and fluttering Lena at all.

Olivia just smirked, amused by it all. “Well, I guess I can put yours where I found these.” She looked up. “Oh, look who’s coming.”

Carlotta, now out of costume and in a black gown, emerged from the hallway. She saw Angela and marched over to her. “Do you know anything about this!”

Angela was startled. “No, I swear I don’t! I was excited to come see you today.”

Carlotta sighed in exasperation and placed her face in her hand. “I didn’t think so. I just don’t understand! What’s wrong with this place! In Milan you just sign contracts but in Paris you have ghosts demanding cast changes?” She shook her head. “Where’s Amélie?”

Angela gestured to her. Olivia patted her shoulder and left to go finish putting everything away. Carlotta turned to the vicomte, so Angela followed.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela stared at the sheet of paper in front of her. She had no idea why she was so anxious about writing this reply. A few crumpled sheets lay beside her. The first had sounded too formal and forced, almost like there wasn’t at all a point she was trying to express. The second was too casual, as if she already knew them well, when she, in fact, knew nothing about this apparition. What did she even want to say anyway? “ _Thank you for your strange attention_ ”? “ _Please continue_ ” or “ _please stay away_ ”?

She bit the end of the pen. To her surprise, it seemed her heart ultimately wanted to match the style of what had been written to her.

“ _À la personne qui m’attend,_  
_I’m very flattered by your words. I had no idea I could captivate anyone in such a way. I enjoy singing, but you must be exaggerating if I deserve to be a goddess for it. Carlotta has much more experience than I do. I imagine, though, that I will sing again. I would enjoy that._  
_You are quite captivating yourself. Why do you stay concealed? If I’m being honest, the mystery with which you cloak yourself does intrigue me. If I somehow relieve your pain, I’m glad to hear that. I don’t wish any pain for you._  
_I am promised to somebody, but you must know that already._

 _Cordialement,  
Angela_ "

She looked down at the page. It still read as odd, but she was unsure if there was any way she could write it more smoothly. She sighed, rubbed her eyes, and folded the letter. She selected an envelope from her desk and slipped it inside. Her mind swirled, perplexed, remembering the voice.

It was best to go to bed.

x-x-x-x-x

The vicomte listened to Olivia as she updated her on the vineyard’s productivity, legs and arms crossed. Her face did not change from half-lidded eyes and firm jaw. Amélie’s eyes were always painted but she never bothered to tame the wild scar that wrapped around her cheekbone. She sat there, a gorgeous statue of the bluest stone. The crowning piece of a pantheon. The jewel of a sculptor’s career.

But Olivia didn’t falter. She knew her well, from their youth in the hunting parties, as they trained the dogs and rode through the woods, and from the sacred art of the Château Guillard vines. 

“The river flooded, but the dykes were able to—“

Olivia’s face quickly twisted into a wide smile, which was always halfway a smirk. She brought her face right up to the vicomte, who didn’t move at all in reaction.

“But enough of that. You already know anyway. This time of year it always flourishes. Now onto the interesting part.”

Amélie smirked subtly, staring Olivia down from such a short distance. Olivia laughed, then retreated and produced a letter from her bag. The seated woman raised her eyebrows, took it, and sliced it open with one motion. She replaced her knife to its sheath and crossed her legs again.

“ _Mme. LaCroix,_  
_I am not sure what led you to believe you have the warrant to claim this place as your own._  
_Regardless, I warn you that if you don’t follow my instructions, grave disaster will come to you._  
_I insist that you promote Mme. Ziegler to head soprano. She will have every lead from this day forward, including tomorrow night._  
_I suggest that you heed my request._

 _Cordialement,_  
_Le fantôme”_

The vicomte raised her eyebrows further as she read, smirking to herself. When she was finished she let the letter drop to the table, and her eyes flicked back to Olivia.

“It’s the ghost, Amé!” Olivia’s eyes glittered.

“I don’t see why you’re so excited about it, Liv.”

“Nothing phases you, huh? Not even a mysterious letter?” Olivia looked down at it. “What does it say?”

“It’s not really important.”

“It’s gotta be!” Olivia snatched it up and examined it. “Amé, you have to be careful! Ghosts can mess you up.”

“I don’t think you have to worry.”

Olivia grinned and looked at her. “You know who it is? They seem so concerned with Angela.”

“No.”

“They sent her a letter, too.”

This news did take Amélie by surprise. She looked at Olivia, her eyes wider, but her voice quality remained the same. “What did it say?”

“Just gushing about her singing.”

Amélie laughed. “She’s such a celebrity. You made it sound like they threatened her or something.”

Olivia seemed reassured by the vicomte’s response. “I guess so. I think she’s writing ‘em back.”

Amélie shrugged. “Lucky them.” She cast aside the letter so she could pour another glass of wine.


	7. Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vicomte disregards the instructions she was given.

Angela followed Olivia down the back hallway. Her companion was carrying the tall heap of a dress and could barely see over it, so Angela offered to take her box of cosmetics. They stopped at Carlotta’s dressing room.

The vicomte had expressed to Angela her desire to attend every performance, at least for this first season. Angela had responded that she would be happy to accompany her.

“Angela, you are at liberty to decline,” Amélie had said.

“No, I enjoy going.”

“Alright. You’re welcome to join me, or sit elsewhere. Or join Olivia, if you’d like.” That option had sounded very exciting to Angela, and it was clear Amélie expected that.

Olivia backed into the door to open it. Carlotta was seated at the vanity, her face in her hand. She was in her black gown, her face and hair unmade. She seemed surprised seeing Angela, but the blonde waved her hands. “I’m just tagging along.”

Carlotta shrugged, letting Angela enter. “Olivia, to be honest, I’m unsure about this.”

Before Olivia could answer, Angela said, “You did such a fabulous job last time though.”

“I can’t have some ‘ghost’ uprooting my performance! I have a right to be here.”

“Of course!” Angela smiled. Carlotta could see how sincere she was, and relaxed somewhat.

Olivia had costuming down to an art. She painted Carlotta’s makeup, exaggerated and vivid for the stage. Angela watched, intrigued. Her only creative pastime had ever been singing, and she hoped to improve her acting. Once, a few years ago, she had even seen Carlotta perform in Florence. Angela did not completely understand what idea this ghost had to prefer her over this seasoned star.

“Ang, do you mind going to the office and grabbing the rouge? I brought the wrong one,” Olivia frowned in apology as she requested, her hands full.

“Alright,” Angela replied, stepping toward the door.

“It’s just on the table.”

Angela nodded and stepped out into the dark hallway. She could hear the murmuring of the other performers in the parallel corridor, but it was muted, as it was still early. She made her way down to the office and set her hand on the door to push it open. Through the corner of her eye, she saw a movement, a dark shape blending into the shadows. She heard a slight swish of fabric. Angela blinked. “Hello…? Is somebody there?”

There was no answer, and Angela squinted. She didn’t see more movement, but thought she saw a figure outlined dimly against the wall. Somebody was there. They had frozen in place at her inquiry. She, unexpectedly even to herself, took a large step toward them and snatched their sleeve. 

She heard an abrupt inhale and felt the fabric tug as they tried to flee, but she held firmly. “Now what are you doing back h--” She trailed off as she pulled them into the light. An envelope fell out of the captive hand.

This person seemed vaguely familiar to her. She wasn’t sure why. A tall man, dressed in a tuxedo shirt and jacket, knelt before her to pick it up. She couldn’t quite see his face, but could distinguish his fiery red hair. He grasped the envelope in long elegant fingers. ….No. It was a woman. 

Even though she was holding her sleeve, Angela still felt a ghostly quality about her. After her initial failure to flee, she did not try again, but she didn’t completely face her. Angela recognized familiar handwriting on the envelope.

“It’s you. You’re the one who wanted me to sing.” Angela couldn’t hide the wonder in her voice as she gazed up at her face, trying to discern her features. The woman stared at her for a moment, not shy, then nodded solemnly.

“Maybe next time then.” Angela smiled brightly, stroking the satin over the woman’s shoulder. She wanted to ask why she wanted her to sing so much, but she didn’t want to be rude.

The redhead expressed surprise in her eyes, then closed her hand tightly, crushing the envelope. She studied the blonde’s face. “You deserve better, Angela.”

Angela was stunned at her casual address. The voice was low and regal and very, very familiar. It was stern, but not harsh at all, like the governess she had as a child. There was a deep sense of caring and fondness in it, like she’s known her for a long time.

The woman turned again to leave. “I--...” Angela began, not wanting her to go, but also unsure what to say. She could tell the redhead wanted to leave, but some sense of reverence stopped her, and she turned toward the blonde again. Angela was speechless, however. Her mind was completely empty. She just stared at her until she turned again, this time slipping away into the darkness.

Angela bit her lip. Where did she recognize her from? Why did she lose all her distrust the moment she saw her face?

She delivered the rouge to Olivia, already feeling like that whole exchange was a dream. Olivia took it from her. “Are you okay, Ang? You look pale.”

Angela was surprised that Olivia didn’t follow up her statement with an exclamation about the ghost. Something made her keep the news to herself. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

x-x-x-x-x

Olivia laughed when Angela asked if she could watch the performance from side stage. Angela wanted to see it again, but wanted to feel it from the perspective of the crew.

“I mean, you’ve already starred in it, but alright!’ Olivia had answered. She set up a chair for her next to hers. “I’m not sure why you’d rather be here than sitting up there like a queen.” She gestured up to the vicomte’s balcony box, but then laughed and rushed off.

Once again, Carlotta emerged in the third scene, and performed beautifully. Angela was blown away. She was excited to finally hear her hit the climactic note and sat on the edge of her chair as Carlotta sang the verse leading up to it. She will finally get her moment.

But the moment never came. One moment she saw Carlotta’s gorgeous face singing to the audience, but the next moment, an ominous rattling came from above. All looked up in horror as the chandelier flickered, swung by a sudden wind, and broke free from its tethers. Time seemed to slow as it plummeted, the glass coming apart and scattering before it shattered to the ground in what seemed like the loudest noise Angela had ever heard. She opened her eyes again, realizing she had squeezed them shut. The auditorium was shrouded in darkness. Angela was frozen in fright, this time feeling naked without her protective beau by her side. She looked down. The body of the chandelier had fallen into the aisle, but the whole audience had been showered in glass, and they were slowly rising from their shrinking in terror.

The same voice spoke calmly from the other side of the stage.  
"Patrons, I have written you letters of the most amiable nature, detailing how my theatre is to be run.”

Her voice began to grow darker, revealing her chagrin.  
“The instructions were simple, and yet you have not followed them. You hear me, LaCroix!” Her voice dripped with contempt. “I shall give you one last chance...."

She paused. Angela stared agape. She could hear others scrambling and searching the stage for the speaker, but they did not find her.

““In the new production next month you will use my script, which I will place in Madame Ziegler’s dressing room. Madame Ziegler will be cast as the Queen, the lead soprano. The role she will play calls for an angel, perfection. For which Carlotta’s skill…. won’t sufficiently serve.”

She almost snarled. “I advise you not to cross me again.”

The ghost disappeared, and none of her searchers located her. This time, the auditorium couldn’t return to its original lighting, as the chandelier had met its demise in a shower of glass. But the wall lights flickered back to life. Angela saw the vicomte standing at the railing of her balcony box, feet set apart and eyes glinting. This time, she was livid.

x-x-x-x-x

After the performance, Amélie was unable to speak to anyone. Angela had tried to approach her and discuss, but the vicomte was focused on remaining calm as much as she could. She emanated a fury that Angela had never felt from her before.

Amélie’s boots tapped as she walked the corridors. Someone had infiltrated her opera and was acting like they owned the place, and there was no way she would allow it to continue happening. She stood at the end of the hallway. Her eyes, narrow but wild, studied the shadows, and her hand was on the sheath at her hip. Her scar ached, and she ran her free hand over her cheekbone. Nobody knew how the vicomte had earned her scar. Most people suspected Olivia knew, but although she enjoyed gossiping, she didn’t really speak of it.

Angela learned the next morning that her beau had searched obsessively late into the night. But she had found nothing.


	8. Emily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People flock to see the next performance, even after such a disaster.  
> Paris is full of mysteries.

Emily shifted in her seat, closing her magazine. She gazed at the cover. It was an old issue, but was her favorite nonetheless. Her aunt had given it to her. Captain Lena Oxton winked at her from the cover, dipping her shoulders in her flirty yet innocent manner. Emily had read and reread the enclosed interview with the charming pilot, but no new news of the star had emerged in several months.

She sighed. The attendants had been polite but had difficulty finding her a seat that accommodated for her bulky leg brace. She had finally made it to Paris from green Ireland, and she was thoroughly exhausted. She descended from the riverboat, and she was glad when she could stretch out her leg again. The kind attendant helped her up from the wheeled chair and returned her cane and her coat. She smiled her goodbye, pulling her fiery hair out from under her coat after she put it on.

It made her sad. She was visiting Paris on a whim due to a cryptic assumption about some vague news. Her heart was not brimming with hope.

This is where she used to live, but it had been a few years now, an eternity of difference for somebody so young. She felt like such a child had left this place and was now returning as an old maid an eternity later, regardless of her still-fresh face.

At least Emily knew where she was going. She had booked the trip from Ireland so quickly, she hadn’t made any other arrangements. Her sisters in Dublin would react with shock if they knew. She’d lied and said she was visiting a specialized therapist for her polio and had booked a comfortable hotel room, but they still worried over how she was traveling alone. Emily appreciated their care and their generosity in housing her, but they still treated her like the child they knew years ago, a sister a decade younger than them, a child who is sickly and weak. What did they know about her, either? They had been in boarding school most of that time. She sighed. She knew they meant well. And they had given her a lot, even if it had been on their own terms. But she was ready to move on.

A line of fiacres had already queued in the street. Emily raised her hand, and one of the porters descended and helped her into the carriage, lifting her and setting her cane beside her, then piled her bags in the back. She doubted she needed it, but pulled out her tattered map of the city where a young version of her had circled the humble building that used to be her home. She knew the streets by heart still, back when she could still run across the concrete to be called back to her aunt’s side. Back when her aunt was able to attend grand events....or leave her house at all. She recalled that low but gentle voice and sighed. Where had she gone….?

The porter was genial. “Where are you heading, madame?” Emily was so used to Dubliners that she was at first startled by her childhood language. She had been born in Ireland but had spent most of her childhood here.

“The operahouse, please.”

“Very well, madame. Are you going to see a show?”

Emily didn’t want to complicate their conversation, so she decided to lie. “Yes.”

“I’ve heard they’re incredible, even if there is mystery.”

“Mystery? Like how?” Maybe this would provide a clue.

“You haven’t heard?!” The porter laughed amicably. “Apparently it’s haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“Yes. Twice now a ghost has silenced the performance and made demands.”

“Demands….”

“Wanted a different star, apparently. Some people think it’s staged for the newspaper attention. But I personally don’t get why they’d shatter their giant chandelier for that. It was receiving enough attention as it was.”

“Ouah, I didn’t know that.” Emily was perplexed, but brightened to hide her personal involvement. “How intriguing! Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Anytime!”

The fiacre turned onto Rue Garnier, which was congested with traffic. Emily gasped. She had not expected that so few of the buildings would remain the same as she had known them. 

“It’s extravagant, isn’t it?” The porter nodded to her and smiled.

“Truly!” Emily breathed her answer, nearly speechless. A nostalgia tugged at her heart, however. This place would never be the same again. And it made her feel more at a loss as to finding her aunt.

At the end of the rue stood the magnificent operahouse. Emily had trouble believing that it could even fit on the lot where she used to live, which always felt so small, dwellings jumbled together. It seemed to shine of its own accord, a gleaming white star one could see from the clouds. Like it could be the inspiration of a pilgrimage, a guiding star.

She thanked the porter as she descended from the fiacre. “You want all your bags here, too, madame?”

“I know it’s strange, but yes. I have somebody coming for them,” she lied.

“Alright then.”

Emily tipped generously, though she truly wished she had more money. Paris is a rather inaccessible city to those with little in way of funds.

She stood, leaning on her cane, stretching out her leg brace as much as she could, thinking. Knowing her aunt, if she were still in Paris, she would not stray far. Emily knew. She was…. fond of continuity to a fault.

“H-hey…. can I help you with sumthin’?”

Emily turned to face her, awakened from her reverie. ….But felt even more like she was in a dream.

Captain Oxton stood before her, in the flesh. When she turned her head, the pilot rouged somewhat, realizing just how pretty this girl was. Emily jumped somewhat in shock, almost falling over. The pilot came closer and held her arm to stabilize her.

“Ah! I-I’m sorry luv, I didn’t mean to scare ya.” The voice was happy but had a greater weight to it than Emily had imagined. All her quips in her interviews were always so light. She faced her and saw the same weight in her eyes. A melancholy had settled there that didn’t show in her pictures. But she smiled regardless.

Emily softened, staring at her face. “Thank you.”

The pilot grinned. “May…. I ask yer name?”

Emily lowered her face and blinked bashfully. “It’s Emily.”

“Ah! I-It suits you.” The pilot’s eyes glittered, and she bowed comically with a flourish. “Captain Lena Oxton, at’cher service! But please, please, _please_. Call me Lena.”

Emily couldn’t believe it. She was turning red and she knew it. Her complexion never hid it for her. Her heartthrob was right here, poised to kiss her glove. Lena did, cradling her hand in both of hers.

“A….are you waitin’ for somebody?” She straightened, self conscious of her stutter, staring into the redhead’s eyes.

Emily shook her head, not minding. “No.”

“You’re coming to the show? I-I hope so. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen.” She said the last part very seriously, almost somberly. “I-I’ve seen it thrice now.”

“Ouah, really? I’d love to see it, but I don’t have a ticket.”

“Then let’s get you one!”

Emily was shocked. “You don’t have to do that!” She hadn’t expected this offer at all.

“No I _insist_. I-I don’t want you to miss out! Plus then I wouldn’t have to go alone.” She grasped Emily’s arm and began to walk. “I’ll get the concierge to take your bags in and—“

“Wait!” Emily fell over against Lena as she was yanked off her feet. Lena’s eyes widened in surprise and she supported Emily’s body against her until she could tilt her back upright. She finally understood why this beautiful gal had a cane. “I-I’m so sorry, Emily! That was so thoughtless.” She straightened and held out her elbow for Emily to take. Emily smiled at her and gently grasped it, and they made their way to the ticket booth, this time at a more moderate speed.

x-x-x-x-x

Emily looked up and around her. This building was unbelievable. Her artistic training awakened as she tried to take in every detail of the ornate woodwork and paint. She felt a stroke of guilt in her heart for liking this new and unnatural place. It was replacing the familiar, albeit dull, colors of her childhood. Even with the strange cavernous roof above meant to house the tremendous chandelier, it was impossible to imagine a place more beautiful.

She looked sideways towards Lena. If it weren’t for the fact that her dreams were never pleasant, she would assume she was dreaming. She shifted her braced leg, stretching it as best she could. Her longtime heartthrob was sitting in the seat next to her, chattering about how good the show was and how much she wanted her to see it. Meeting Lena was like meeting an old friend who’s so happy to see you again. She gazed at the pilot’s face, admittedly not absorbing the information, just was so drawn in by her bright smile. 

Something was different, though, than her pictures from months ago. She seemed older now, but it made her even more appealing somehow. Little creases around her eyes. Like she could understand you. Like she had depth, even if she was still trilling lightly. Emily accepted it, just watching contentedly, leaning towards her.

“Oh! You know…. it’s haunted here, right?”

Emily straightened a bit, interested. “I did hear about that but I wasn’t sure what it meant.”

“Well, there’s a lot of gossip. But I saw both times the ghost visited.”

“What happened?”

“I-I’m not sure her reasons, but she really wants Madame Ziegler to star in this show. She threatened’at disaster will come if they kept Carlotta for the part. Tha’s why the other night the chandelier fell. She was angry they didn’t listen.” Lena’s eyes glittered with the intrigue of storytelling. “A-and tonight they gave in and Madame Ziegler is finally back! I personally like her the best by far for the part, too, so I’m not complaining. But I wonder what the new script has in store.”

Emily tapped her chin. “I see…. How exciting!” She looked up, gathering her thoughts. “I hope nobody was hurt the other night….But I’m glad your favorite actress is back!” She brushed her hand over Lena’s, pondering. “Wait….The ghost is a woman? How do you know?”

“We heard her voice! I-it was thrilling! Nobody could find her.”

Emily’s mind was reeling. That could be her aunt! Maybe she was nearby after all. Coming to the show maybe had a practical use too. She had no idea what her investment in actresses would be, but she understood her anger at the owners.

Emily smiled sweetly. “Thank you again for taking me, Lena. Not everybody is always able to….see me.” She lightly twisted her cane back and forth.

“Iz’ my pleasure, Em! Couldn’t ask for a prettier date to take!” She grinned widely.

Emily blushed deeply, in shock and bliss, but was relieved as the lights dimmed for the show. It had been awhile since she had enjoyed herself so much, and this was just the beginning of the evening.

x-x-x-x-x

_Madame Ziegler finally stepped out onto the stage. Lena hadn’t seen her since the opening night. Carlotta did her job well, but nothing could compare to Angela’s voice. Lena’s pain and anxiety just washed off her when she heard her beautiful song._

_She thought she might have gone blind that day too. It isn’t that her eyes stopped working, no. She just suddenly felt such a long distance away ever since, even when she could reach out and touch it with her fingertips... she wasn’t sure if she felt no pain at all or if she felt a constant pain. All light seemed so dim but was the harshest blue like fluorescent beams._

_But the opera was dim, at least from the auditorium. The lights reflected off warm dark wood. The upholstery was an aged dark wine and she could feel it in her hands as she felt the edges of the cushion._

_The woman there on the stage. Her dress was so bright. But there was nothing harsh about her. All soft shapes and soft glow. Even a halo. Then she sang. And sang and sang. And the glass between Lena and the world seemed to shatter. And she was brought into the moment. Her eyes teared up. She hadn’t been able to cry since her plane…. But she could now. It felt like a cleansing. Even the god that pulled her out of time couldn’t stop this angel, this determined angel, from fighting to pull her back in._

Lena felt that she couldn’t look away, but she tore her eyes away to glance at the woman beside her too, happy she could share something with someone. Emily was entranced, too. God, she was so beautiful. The voice could light up everything better than the chandelier ever could. Emily saw her tearing eyes and looked concerned for a moment, but Lena shook her head, smiling, then squeezed Emily’s hand in her own. Emily felt reassured. Lena was radiating serenity.

x-x-x-x-x

After they had approached and congratulated Madame Ziegler, Lena had invited Emily to stay with her. More than anything, Emily wanted to accept and go with this woman. But she politely declined, saying she had a prior commitment. Lena’s face fell, but Emily took her hand in hers. “Let’s meet tomorrow.”

Lena sighed, but understood, scratching her ear bashfully and smiling. “Y-ya didn’t come all the way ‘ere to see me after all. But let me treatchya to lunch tomorrow?”

Emily clasped her hands together. “I’d like that.”

Lena lit up, a ray of sunshine, and Emily giggled at her. They agreed on a time and Emily waved goodbye to her from the stairs of the operahouse. 

Emily looked around. It was very late now. Only a few people remained congregated inside. She was reassured. Maybe her aunt hadn’t left this place. On one hand that made her very sad, here alone and not moved along. But the clue to finding her inflated her tired heart. 

She frowned. When she was younger she could do all kinds of sneaking around. She liked to creep up and spy on anybody she could. Her aunt. The children with whom she played. But now she stared down at her brace and her cane and sighed. At least she was never suspected of anything. She made her way back into the operahouse. Now….the entrance must be around here somewhere. She hoped they would not have covered it up.

Emily walked to the back of the lobby, satisfied that she remained unnoticed by those conversing. A dark hallway loomed, and she leaned against its wall, trying to quiet her racing heart. She shut her eyes and listened. A humming came from the door at the end. She set her hand on the doorknob and it opened. Thank God it wasn’t locked. Glancing around, she stepped inside. The furnace rumbled and spun from the back of the room, steam seeping upward. Her eyes adjusted to the shadow, and she found what she was looking for: a staircase leading to a basement level, and a heavy door.

After finally pulling it open and entering, Emily was pleased to see the familiar tangle of the catacombs, untouched by the construction. Their slice of it, where she had learned so much of her aunt’s strange trade. And where the nightmare had happened. She was so conflicted. The nostalgia and the trauma dueled in such a whirlwind before her. 

But Emily shook her head. If her aunt wasn’t here, she had no idea where she would be. She made her way down the corridor to the hidden door, leaned her hand on the ash-dusted wall, and opened it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> O Lore?
> 
> This chapter is for my friend Gray, aka Multikicker.
> 
> For more of a backstory on Lena, check out Floranya's fic:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/13694253


	9. The Lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter another opera admirer.

A familiar crackling sound swept over Emily. The fire that still occasionally appeared in her dreams loomed in the center of the cavern. She couldn’t remember it ever being unlit. It was a reminder of the metaphysical occupancy ever-present here. 

In her heart, Emily was glad her aunt had taught her this philosophy, even as her sisters tried to shame her for it. At the very least, this knowledge, even left neglected, provided her with a useful analogy. She had seen her aunt repeatedly collapse into the mélange of nigredo, swirling and blackening, as she experienced failure. But she also had seen the hope of albedo, the brightening and purification from the chaos, like melted glass clinging to its rod.

Emily did not initially see her aunt. She was standing so still, bent over the fire to study the contents of her flask. A silvery liquid was boiling and tumbling against the glass. Emily was hesitant to disturb her. She was so focused.

So Emily waited a beat, watching her. The fire was mirrored in her eyes. The shadow it cast barely masked her asymmetrical eyes.

Distilled. Distilled. Distilled. 

Again. Again. Again.

And Emily always knew what would happen.

But this time it was different. Moira held up the flask in a gloved hand. What looked like branches unfurled in it, like they sprouted from a seed. Emily had to muffle her gasp, glad for the steady sound of rushing water nearby.

Moira reacted differently than Emily expected. Her eyes relaxed. She reached out gently and stroked the edge of the glass, even as it still shimmered with heat. Then she set it down carefully.

Emily didn’t want to shock her, but even the thought of knocking on the door from the outside seemed too sudden. She felt like her aunt was a mirage who could just slip through her fingers and be gone. So Emily just took another step forward, more in the radius of the fire now. Her cane made a louder clack than she intended.

But the sound was familiar enough. Moira looked up, mystified, and saw her. But none of the suspicion or fear had flashed across her features. She was questioning whether she had imagined it.

No, here she was. Her little faery Emily. So beautiful just standing there. Emily saw tears come to her aunt’s eyes, but she willed them away. Emily smiled at her, unsure what to say. She was relieved to see that softness. Her sisters always demonized Moira, trying to soil her memory of her.

“You’ve come back….”

Emily nodded. “I heard news there was an operahouse here now. I worried about you.” She bit her lip and looked around the cavern. “Have you been here alone this whole time?” She was heartbroken. Their home had been demolished, which meant she was limited to these chambers.

Moira shook her head. “It’s alright now.” She strode over to her niece. “Why don’t you sit down?” Emily suddenly felt the weariness of her long trip. Her adrenaline upon meeting the charming pilot and watching the performance had masked it. Her aunt led her to a comfortable seat, so she sat. 

Emily blinked. “What do you mean, ‘it’s alright now’?” She looked up at her. Moira looked the same as she did when she left, years ago. Emily, in fact, had no idea how old she was.

“Oh Emily, it always seemed like I could discover anything except for what it is I want. But I found it! I finally found the seed.” Her voice was quiet, but ragged with inspiration.

“You have? What is the catalyst?” Emily’s latent interest in the science, buried by the years away, awakened at her aunt’s captivating energy.

“It’s her. I see her growing brighter. It’s like I can see her making gold right before my eyes.”

“Her….”

“Madame Ziegler.”

“Oh….” Emily was intrigued by the tenderness with which Moira said her name. She remembered how Lena’s eyes had glittered as she watched the soprano. How ease radiated from her. “She’s incredible. But….a person?” It had only been objects before.

“Her voice. I think it has healing powers.”

Emily was struck by this, casting her eyes down. She looked at her leg brace, then at Moira. She had on a loose white dress shirt that concealed her arms. Emily could see her fingertips, though, and noticed her right hand quivering. It was still there. Her heart hurt. But tonight it had slowed, had become more manageable. “Your arm…. It’s still—” 

“I’m so close, Emily. Then I can heal you the rest of the way.”

Emily paused and grasped for her hand. “Aunt Moira, you’ve done more than your share.” She felt the tall woman freeze for a moment, but let her hold it. 

Emily had a peculiar calming force about her, and she felt the hand relax. A relief swept over her. She shut her eyes, remembering her aunt shrinking in pain, the hand spasming of its own accord. How she had tried to conceal it from the girl. But Emily always could feel her strain. How hard she strove to continue her delicate work.

Emily looked up at her face. “You’ve lived with this hand because of me.”

Moira collapsed some at her niece’s heartbroken eyes. “No, it was because my treatment was flawed. It just means I have to keep working. Once I find the cure, we will both be well. Her voice slows the shaking. There must be something there.”

Emily sighed. Her aunt’s persistence was noble, yet it made her sad. But the hope that radiated from her was new and encouraging. She was different. A new source of life had poured itself into her.

“Now let’s get you something to eat, Em.”


	10. The Script

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The phantom delivers her script.

After the final guests had finished congratulating her, Angela had returned to her dressing room. She had a lot to do, but she sat down and stared at the mirror, unable to focus. She couldn’t stop thinking about the figure she had seen in the corridor the other night. She wouldn’t leave her thoughts. The tall, imposing, yet delicate shadow. _“You deserve better, Angela.”_ She frowned, tapping her fingers on the table. The phrase rang with a deeper meaning than simply the performance. It struck a chord in her chest. 

Angela had expected to see evidence of the ghost tonight. The fact that Amélie had given into the demands must have made an appearance unnecessary. Angela was willing to admit she was disappointed. The magnetism of the phantom was so strong to her, and it was a level of excitement she hadn’t felt in quite awhile. She sighed and took out a blank sheet of paper. 

She remembered how Carlotta, upon seeing the demise of the chandelier, had been filled with fear instead of anger this time. She had fainted on the stage. When she had finally awakened to see Olivia and Angela, she had refused to stay in the operahouse a moment longer, afraid for her safety. _If I deserve better, why terrify her?_ Angela thought. She pulled out her pen and began to write in her graceful penmanship.

_“À la personne qui m’attend,_  
_I am back. You brought me here._  
_I enjoy performing but I’m unsure why it’s so urgent to you._  
_I don’t understand your motives._  
_But I want to. You’re compelling to me._  
_Where did you come from?_  
_Why am I of any importance to you?_  
_Why don’t you talk to me?_  
_Why don’t you talk to me in the light of day?_  
_I know you are not an apparition, but a person._

_Fidèlement,_  
_Angela_

Angela felt her heart race at the familiarity with which she signed the letter. The door opened slightly, and she could see Olivia peeking through it. She carefully folded up the page. “Come in, Liv.”

Olivia entered with a flourish and a huge grin, carrying a small bouquet of flowers. “I know your arrangement is under strange circumstances, but I wanted to let you know how proud I am of you! You’ve been breathtaking every performance!” She presented them to Angela.

Angela blushed, but it was primarily from the rush of adrenaline she had received from hiding the letter. “....Ah! Thank you so much!” She held the flowers to her face.

Olivia smiled, but she was quickly distracted and excited by something she saw on the floor. “Ang! You didn’t hear anything?!” She knelt and picked up the bundle that had been tucked beneath the door and gave it to Angela.

The blonde blinked in shock. She had entirely missed an opportunity to interact with the phantom. If she were being honest with herself, she was somewhat crestfallen. She opened the bundle.

_Pénélope, un opéra._

Angela drew out a stack of paper. A script. She inhaled deeply, dropping the envelope to the floor. A whole opera, written out carefully in ink. Olivia sprang over to Angela’s side to look. It took a few minutes for them to skim the work, but as they grew to understand, they turned to each other, eyes wide, and even Olivia was speechless.

x-x-x-x-x

The vicomte stalked back and forth, brandishing her epée. Olivia watched her with an almost amused expression, crossing her arms. She hadn’t seen Amélie overcome with such a rage for years. The vicomte had been at this all morning. The severe woman always valued the maintenance of her magisterial appearance to the public, appearing disinterested and almost tired, with half-lidded eyes. But lately her eyes flashed caustic, and Olivia watched her attempt to release the energy as she violently parried with the dummy. She saw her pause for a moment, pressing the palm of her gloved hand to the scar on her cheek.

Olivia strolled over to her, smirking and wordlessly offering her a glass of iced tea with a slice of lemon on the rim. Amélie set her jaw and took it, holding it to her lips. She glared as Olivia continued to smirk. “What is with you?”

Olivia made a face. “Nothing.”

Amélie huffed and ignored her. “Do you have anything stronger?”

“Yeah.” But then Olivia bent with laughter. “And do you want a cheese plate, madame? And some grapes, too? Some crème?”

“Just bring it out!” The vicomte snarled at her, but Olivia did not react at all. She continued smirking.

“What are you going to do about the opera, Amé?”

The vicomte’s face contorted for a second, then flattened. “Olivia.”

Olivia stepped towards her. “Yeah?”

Amélie exhaled in exasperation. Olivia knew very well that she was not able to find anyone, even though she scanned the building every day since the phantom first appeared. The vicomte’s voice was low and dark. “We’re using the phantom’s script. Angela starring." She brushed her hand over her scar again. "I don't want to risk any more. Carlotta insisted on leaving, anyway.”

Olivia smirked even wider. She pivoted and poured Amélie a stronger drink and placed it in her hand. “Well I found it.” She pulled the script out of her bag and held it up.

“What! Show it to me!” The vicomte snatched the paper, taking a sip from her glass.

“It’s rather self indulgent, Amé. But not abnormal for an opera.”

“Self indulgent?”

Olivia’s grin stretched ear to ear. “Yeah. The Phantom is going to play the King, Angela's love.”


	11. Bad Conscience?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela tries to keep her interest discreet, if possible.

Angela had been unable to sleep soundly for several nights. She always rubbed her eyes and sat up, tucking her legs under her. The script resting beside her lamp always seemed to be calling her name, almost glowing in her peripheral vision. She would sigh at her lack of self control and take the paper into her hands again.

The opera was beautifully written. The phantom had drawn in each note and lyric with great care. Angela wondered how long this must have taken. She always found herself flipping through it, even when she wasn’t studying her lines. It was like a letter in itself. 

Angela looked to her desk, where she had stacked four letters. The phantom had been answering her. When she thought Olivia wasn’t looking, Angela would slip her response under the door as she left. She just couldn’t overcome her magnetism to the strange woman. She remembered the asymmetric eyes glinting at her in the shadow, and yet they held an unforeseen softness. The sharpest lines yet the most delicate movement.

Angela took the letters into her hand and opened one. Every night was just her in her empty room, a resounding loneliness that sparked fear in her, so she found herself opening them over and over.

“ _À mon ange,_  
_You decided to write to me and I am blessed._  
_You ask about your importance_  
_But it is like the Sun asking the Earth._  
_You come down from the heavens and gracefully land._  
_You descend to be my queen._  
_The feathers of your wings weave around me._  
_And I am healed._  
_I want to reflect in your eyes._  
_You sing notes that lift me into the air._  
_Soon we can meet and you will see from where I have come._  
_You have my heart._  
_I’ll be here._

_With all my love,_  
_La personne qui attend votre retour”_

Angela really didn’t know what she could mean, but she was consistent. What really struck her was how Lena had said the same thing, even weeks ago. She pondered about the performances, where Olivia had draped the angel costume around her, and it glowed and sparkled in the stage lights. How her halo gleamed like starlight. She always had seen a gaping shadow that was the auditorium, but had faith it was full, every seat. Maybe she didn’t know the effects she had, what made these letters come and what made the pilot’s eyes sparkle with gratitude. It wasn’t a simple shallow adoration, but a deep heartfelt reply.

So every time Angela entered the dressing room, she looked for the letter tucked under the door with a warm anticipation. And every time she wrote out a reply, hoping for another clue to this mystery. She attempted to hide her preoccupation from Olivia, but she soon realized that you cannot hide such a thing. When Olivia reached the dressing room first, Angela would enter, and her shamelessly grinning assistant would present her with her prize. The blonde blushed, hopelessly embarrassed at her transparence. 

Whenever Angela thought of Amélie, a pang of guilt struck her. She hadn’t been able to see her beau for several days now. The vicomte had been consumed with business lately. Angela knew she wasn’t doing anything alarmingly to betray, but the cold blue flame of the vicomte’s anger haunted her. She remembered how it had burst, and a radius of cold front had seared across the auditorium. Angela almost felt glad for her beau’s absence, though she was horrified at this admission.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela had to wait several days to dine with Amélie. She understood. The vicomte was a very important woman. She waited at the grand table. The room always seemed cavernous, but sitting alone in it made her feel so miniscule. When Amélie finally rushed in, Angela could tell her beau was apologetic. She could see it in her eyes and in how her voice quality was low and rough. “Angela, I apologize for being late.”

“Don’t worry, Amélie. I know you have so much going on.”

The vicomte softened, took Angela’s hand into hers, and kissed it. “I’ve been happy to view your performances. You seem to enjoy it, and you’re very talented.”

The compliment struck Angela. She had received so many, but such a simple one from the vicomte carried so much weight. “Ah I didn’t know you could make it to them!”

“I made sure I could see at least a portion of each.”

Angela smiled brightly. She hadn’t expected that. But hesitation still hindered her as she thought to mention the new opera. It seemed that Amélie could sense it. “I’m sure you will excel at playing the queen, too. You were a beautiful angel.”

Angela blushed deeply and turned away some, with more than the strength of the compliment but with the thought that materialized of the phantom playing the king. She was suddenly very anxious, but tried to hide it behind her smile.

The vicomte blinked. “You alright, Angela?”

Angela nodded, still red, looking down at her lap. Amélie smiled her slight but noticeable smile. “You’ll do fine. You are such a sensation. Everyone mentions you.”

Angela realized Amélie simply thought she was nervous for this next production. It is true that she was: she had memorized the lines previously as an understudy who potentially would never perform, so the pressure was less stifling. Her beau was referring to something she hadn’t even realized about herself. Angela hid behind her wine glass.

Amélie sighed through her nose. “I’m just unsure how _she_ plans to rehearse with you.” On one hand, the admission meant a lot to Angela because the vicomte rarely showed her internal dialogue, even in body language, let alone in words. On the other, Angela’s anxiety sparked at the clear animosity. She would have been shocked if Amélie had a conciliatory response to the phantom’s upsetting of her power, but she was unsettled at how much she herself didn’t match her beau’s opinion. She found herself not minding the strange woman’s behavior and just longing for more contact with her. The fact that Amélie seemed completely content with her, divorcing her from the tension with the phantom, both relieved Angela and unnerved her.

“I’m not sure yet.” Angela bit her lip.

“I suppose it’s up to her.” Amélie sipped her soup from her spoon, then lifted her wine glass. Her eyes, naturally narrowed, seemed to be analyzing Angela. The blonde dipped her head, looked into her soup, and picked at her salad. There was a long silence.

The vicomte smirked. “Well over in Provence….” She proceeded to tell a benign anecdote about her business, much to Angela’s relief.

x-x-x-x-x

After the performance as Angela greeted guests in the lobby, Captain Oxton, dapper in her suit and ruffled shirt, approached her once again. She was amazed how the captain had never missed a single night. She loved how she could come to expect her approach among the throng of admirers in the lobby. Angela curtsied to her. “A pleasure to see you again, Lena. Emily.”

The pilot had an expression of peace and profound relief. Emily stood quietly to the side, but still glowing with admiration. Lena bowed and kissed Angela’s hand. “Thank ya, again, for such a spectacular performance. You banish every bad thought.”

Angela beamed. “I’m glad.” She paused. “You know, this production only has two weekends left. But not to worry! We will have another right after.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Lena looked almost as if she could tear up with happiness, holding her hand over her heart. “A-as long as you star in it.”

“I do! I’m the title role. _Pénélope_. I’m so happy you look forward to it.”

“I do very much!” Lena replied. Emily glanced between each of them, fiddling with her fingers, but stayed quiet with a gentle smile. 

Soon they bid each other farewell, and Angela bent to kiss Lena’s cheeks, promising to see her again. When she turned around, Olivia was standing behind her.

Angela jumped. “Oh my goodness, you scared me!”

Olivia made an apologetic face, but her grin quickly grew back. “Ang, you were glorious, as usual!”

“Thank you!” Angela clasped her hands together, so happy that she felt she could float away.

“I have something for you, though.” Olivia produced another letter, eyes gleaming. Angela’s eagerness had been palpable as she awaited another response. Olivia was happy to have found it and be the one to see her friend open it.

Angela couldn’t hide her anticipation as she clasped it. She quickly slid off her gloves, then unfolded the paper.

“ _À mon ange,_  
_It has been such a relief that you are always the one_  
_Upon whom the lights glow._  
_Soon I will be able to witness your glory_  
_From by your side._  
_Our début approaches._  
_Tomorrow night, appear on this stage at 21h._  
_And only you._  
_You have my heart._  
_I’ll be there._

_With all my love,_  
_La personne qui attend votre retour”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hm, possibly something exciting is about to happen?


	12. Ulysses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela attends her appointment.

The vicomte leaned back in her chair pensively, sipping at her glass, and gazed out over the banister of the balcony. The breeze felt nice. It carried the last cool ribbons of spring air across the city to make way for the rays of summer.

Amélie didn’t turn her head, but she glanced at Olivia through the corners of her eyes. She was standing at the porch buffet, looking through the drawers because she had misplaced the corkscrew.

“Has Angela been feeling alright?” 

Olivia turned around, having finally found it. “What do you mean?” She cradled it in her hand for a moment.

“She just seems to be acting strange is all. Anxious. And she always tries to hide it even if I ask.” She paused for an uncomfortably long time to sip from her glass and think. Angela was usually such an open book. Olivia knew to wait for a moment. “I was wondering if you noticed. Has she been overworked? Too stressed? Afraid of this phantom, perhaps?”

Olivia blinked, gazing at the wine rack, in the midst of selecting a new bottle. “Well….I don’t think she’s too stressed about being the lead. She’s such a natural and seems enthusiastic about the part. The phantom! Well.…” She oscillated a moment, but hid it behind unlocking the door and selecting a bottle. “....I think she’s exceedingly curious about her. But I do admit I’ve been fascinated myself, so I might have encouraged her….”

“Olivia.” The vicomte’s voice was steely but not angry. She wasn’t surprised at Olivia’s fixation because she knew her well enough to recognize seeking out intrigue was a pillar of her personality. But Angela. Something flickered in her. It wasn’t a betrayal, but somewhat of an upset to her paradigm. Angela was usually so sensible and if she was drawn into any of her friend’s chatter, it was usually small and benign. This time her safety could be threatened. Amélie remembered the tremendous crash of the chandelier and shut her eyes at the thought of how fortunate it was that there was no injury. “She’s reckless.”

Olivia brought the bottle to the table and sat, gripping the corkscrew. “Angela? Not _really_. She’s just curious.”

“The phantom.” The vicomte scowled, irritated at how she was limited to calling this spectre such an absurd title. 

Her companion shrugged. “On one hand, the phantom seems dangerous, but on the other it’s like she’s incredibly harmless.”

“Letters are fine. Praise is fine. It makes Angela happy. But it amplifies now. And this person seems audacious.”

Olivia uncorked the bottle and poured herself a glass. “Hm…. she certainly acts like she owns the place.” She hid her smirk behind her sip.

Amélie wasn’t fooled. “She has no right to demand my compliance. Or to subject my clients or my building to physical danger.”

Olivia just watched the vicomte with glittering eyes over the rim of her glass. “You think Ang is in danger?”

“I can’t know. But it seems reasonable to be suspicious.”

“The ever-loyal beau.”

Amélie ignored her. “Will you keep an eye on her for me? You’re there most of the time, anyway. Just look out for anything questionable. More than it already is, anyway.” 

“Aye, aye.” Olivia tilted her head and chuckled to herself, drumming her fingers on the glass.

The vicomte rolled her eyes. “I could take a more aggressive approach. But Angela seems so eager. I will wait.”

x-x-x-x-x

Angela sat in the dressing room with her hands clasped in her lap. She was accustomed to sitting still here as Olivia danced around her, applying makeup and accessories. The motion was absent tonight, and the room seemed so dim without the flurry of activity. She hadn’t the heart to turn on the vanity lamps that Olivia used for painting her face.

The room did not feel quite as still, however, as her heartbeat began to gain traction and speed. She tried to convince herself it was apprehension, but was unsuccessful, so she began trying to convince herself that she had no idea why she was so lightheaded with nervous energy. The hands on the clock kept advancing, its ticking seemed to be the only sound in the silent operahouse. 

Some force had delivered her from waiting anxiously at home to waiting anxiously in here. An hour remaining. No, twenty minutes. Where had the time gone?

“Angela.”

Her racing heart nearly stopped short. She could feel it stumble down her ribs like it would a staircase.

“You’re here early.” 

Angela blinked and looked around. Nobody was there, but it was as if the voice was coming from right beside her. She could almost feel a sensation on her shoulder, but when she turned, there was nobody. “Where are you?”

“I’m nearby.”

Angela looked down, clasping her hands in her lap. “I’m used to….getting here early for costume. But.” She laughed. “Of course there is no costume yet! It must just be the force of habit.”

“You seem quite driven by the force of habit.”

Angela’s spine pulsed with shock, and she couldn’t hide it from her face. “I….” She rouged. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do you live in a vacuum, Angela, having lived alone for so long?” The memory of the halo of light illuminating her fair head appeared behind the phantom’s eyes.

She could see the impact of her words. The blonde turned her face down, speechless. “I….” she attempted, but the phrase was drawn back into her throat.

The voice softened. “....I understand. I know what it feels like.”

Angela tilted her face to the side, wisps of her golden hair spilling across her brow. She bit her lip, like creasing a rose petal.

“....but don’t let the fear of loneliness cause you to rush into hasty arrangements.”

“I don’t--” Angela’s voice faltered for a moment, but then she lifted her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just think of our Pénélope, Angela.”

Every time she heard her name repeated, Angela felt her breath catch, a parachute opening to cut her plummeting. “Pénélope….” She gazed at the script, at the letters inked with such care. The script she had read so many times, the narrative that resounded within her.

“You make a perfect Pénélope.” _(*See Notes)_

Angela’s chest ached. “Are you….a perfect Ulysses?” _(*)_

The phantom laughed abruptly. “Am I, now? I’ll leave that decision to you. You have more power than you realize.”

“I don’t….” Angela’s brow furrowed in abrupt confusion, and she waited a moment. These philosophical riddles tugged at her, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to explore them. She finally looked up. “So….” 

But there was no answer. The air felt empty. The clock struck the hour.

x-x-x-x-x

The stage was so strange in front of an empty auditorium. Angela had only turned the back lights on, and she could see across the expanse of empty seating. The spotlight no longer blinded her to her surroundings. She could even see the grain of the wood and the velvet of the cushions. The lights made her feel larger than life on this platform, but the dim made her feel impossibly small. She kept staring out, mesmerized.

“Now imagine. Here you are, my exquisite Pénélope.”

Before Angela could twirl around, she felt a hand on her shoulder. She inhaled slowly, paralyzed. The touch was incredibly gentle, and a part of her just wanted to shut her eyes and curl into the contact, resting her face against it. The feeling was almost familiar but also entirely new. Perhaps she was Pénélope, perpetually waiting for a word, for the cresting of a ship’s masts over the horizon. But perhaps she was not, with her heart, now fickle, finally astray from all she had known.

“You wait, so graciously. So stubbornly. And by now, only the act of a god can bring back your beloved. But you have faith.”

Angela was breathless. The hand was lifted away, and she slowly turned her face but saw only shadow.

“There is so much of this tainted by his absence.” She heard a light laugh. “As you know, he finally appears, enshrouded so she cannot know. But we’ve had enough of that for now, haven’t we? So let's skip forward. I figured that you would want to start with something more....interesting.”

The lights slightly brightened. Angela finally worked up the gall to whip herself around. And there she was, in front of her. This time not bent into a shadow of the corridor, but center stage, her face relaxed, and the fingertips of each hand lightly drumming together. She was tall and willowy, obscured by a dark cloak, but the hood was turned back, revealing a helmet with a crest that crowned her fiery hair. Angela could just make out her face in the shadow. Sharp, regal angles. There was an inexplicable fire, always lit.

“I have just vanquished the suitors.”

“Alright….” Angela answered, her words barely escaping in a breathy voice. She felt like she was trying to move underwater.

“Go on.”

Angela looked down for a long moment, the notes coming to her. A song from the apex of hope of a long-patient lover who had just been told of her beloved’s return, but her inflated heart hurt with the potential of disappointment. She began to sing, her voice shaky at first in such a dim, cavernous room. The usual standard of looking to the audience fell away as she gave into the magnetism of her counterpart, watching her reaction. Then her voice, as always, intensified into its glory.

The phantom first responded by shutting her eyes and allowing a wave of serenity to wash over her, which Angela could clearly see laid her shoulders to rest and--in a detail she hadn’t seen before-- she released her right arm from its place immobilized as much as possible against her body. It stopped shaking, a huge relief. As her queen sang, the phantom opened her eyes and made eye contact with Angela, unflinching, but strangely at rest. It did not break for the rest of the song.

Angela inhaled as the last note seemed to draw out much longer than she had sung it, echoing through the auditorium. The heartache of her character engulfed her, the pain of hope clawing at her throat and the corners of her eyes. 

She felt her own turmoil tumble down from the distant attic where she had shut away everything. Her own poison struck her in the side. How her mother’s joy had bled through her as she introduced the vicomte. How the stern of Angela’s ship had been jarred bluntly to the side, sending her spinning. But when her mother could no longer, Angela could try to revive that joy, by roughly trying to impel her ship in the opposite direction. By forgetting all her previous dreams. This prescribed life would be pleasant, in great care of a gentle and powerful force, but her autonomy had faded away.

Pénélope tore her gaze away from those strange eyes to a spot on the empty stage to speak to another. “I….am so lost in astonishment that I cannot find a single word. How can I know, after so many years, it is truly him?”

“Ask me what you will,” Ulysses responded.

True tears came to Angela’s eyes. The magnetism felt like a taut cord between them. She was drawn to the other woman, taking several steps toward her.

After a short pause, Ulysses continued. “War ravages he who must abide for so long for the storm to pass. It is no wonder his old life cannot embrace him. Even with the help of Minerva _(*)_ he cannot return to the man he was before he set out. But he can say that he has thought of her ceaselessly. Just for this moment of her presence, which is enough to heal every wound.” As she said these last words, Angela had approached, regarding the tall woman’s face.

Ulysses reached out to wipe the tears from the eyes of his long-suffering wife. And Pénélope, neglecting the next several lines and the proof she had demanded, proceeded to take the other’s face into her hands, and kiss her.

x-x-x-x-x

Olivia completely froze with shock. She had begun to watch the scene from the shadows of the balcony, even with expectation that it would grow intense, readying herself to spin a great tale of the intrigue she had witnessed. She had already perceived as she entered that the phantom had glanced up to her exact spot: not a look of fear, but of a great force of will and almost condescension. 

But now, the force in these lines following the song made something Olivia had suppressed, a seed in her chest, burst into bloom. An old idea melted through its lock and back into her consideration. She bit her lip; her eagerness had evaporated. Her mind was completely empty for once, and she was unsure what she will report to the vicomte.

So Olivia looked away as they kissed, conflicted, making her way silently to the exit. After what seemed like twenty years, she heard murmurs and then Angela’s breathy, muted voice wander across the room: “You never….told me your name.”

But she finally crossed the threshold and heard no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *If you are unfamiliar with _The Odyssey_ by Homer or the segment about Penelope, it may be wise to glance at her wiki page : https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penelope  
>  I am using the Roman names of the characters, i.e. Ulysses instead of Odysseus. Minerva instead of Athena.  
> Summary: Ulysses has been gone to war for many years, but his wife has faithfully waited for him to return, even though she has had so many suitors attempt to marry her. But this comes to a climax, where she declares that she will only marry the one who can string and shoot Ulysses' bow. Ulysses has returned in the meantime, disguised, to see what has become of his home. But as he wins the challenge against the other suitors, he reveals himself.
> 
> There was, in fact, a French opera written about this, obviously not written by Dr. O'Deorain, but by Gabriel Fauré. I do not take any quotations from this work.


	13. Indecision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia and Angela both vacillate.

Olivia paced back and forth, gritting her teeth. Her mind was reeling. One side of her flared up in defense of her friends and their arrangement, for which she coiled like a snake ready to strike. What was Angela thinking? She and Amélie had a good partnership. Olivia wasn’t even sure that she’d ever seen Madame Ziegler act so reckless. Maybe she was in real danger. Maybe she was under a sort of spell. This ghost could have any sort of untold power. Her superstitions awakened and tumbled in her stomach.

But on the other hand, she felt her escaped notion burning into her. What if she took no supportive action? What if she let the blaze devour Angela? There was no lie in it. Then she could return to another season of having the vicomte to herself. Olivia tasted metal on her tongue. What kind of admission was this? Angela had always been a dear friend who meant very much both to her and to Amélie.

She shivered at the cold spectre of each of their disappointments. She couldn’t bear causing either any pain. Her brain couldn’t formulate any sort of understanding about what happened, let alone manufacture a better outcome. The phantom had been rather passive in this passion. Angela was also accountable.

Regardless, Olivia found herself plodding towards Angela’s door. A tiny but nagging conjecture said that Angela may not even be home. She scowled at it and knocked.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela sat up and cradled her head. A dull pain had settled behind her eyes. She slouched, running her hand through her tangled hair and sliding her feet into her slippers. Her body felt heavy as she stood, but her heart fluttered like it could fly away any moment. A struggle between a paralyzing apprehension and a consuming ecstasy pulled her in many directions.

Her brain was chattering incessantly, but she had not begun to listen. It was an object in a box she could lock away. Not real, and she could begin gradually forgetting this memory like she would a dream. She slid her feet along the floor of her bedroom out to the stove to make some tea.

Angela stared at the flame as it tumbled beneath the kettle. The thoughts began to leak through her weak framework of normalcy and began to turn her ribs to stone. She wanted to curl up where she was and disappear. Who was she trying to fool?

The strain caused her thoughts to wildly vacillate until they gave her motion sickness.  
_Amélie is compassionate. Amélie is capable. Amélie’s eyes soften when they see you. Amélie is accommodating. Amélie has resources. Amélie does not pressure you. Amélie values what’s left of your independence._  
_What’s left of your independence._  
_”You seem quite driven by the force of habit.”_  
Angela realized she and the vicomte had been fiancées for over two years, and she still had not set a date or selected a dress, despite dreaming of such a day for most of her childhood.  
_”You deserve better, Angela.”_  
Angela shivered at even the memory of her voice. Why couldn’t she keep her out of her mind?  
_Her strange eyes, her soft touch, her mouth, her…._  
Angela covered her face. She hadn’t felt a bliss like this since she was a young child awaiting Christmas.

She jumped as a knock resounded from the door. At first she was thankful for the distraction, but then her stomach plummeted. She took the kettle off the stove, then trudged to the door, hoping her visitor was gone. She opened it just so she could see out. 

Olivia smiled at her. It was gentler than her usual grin, though she seemed to be avoiding eye contact. She held up the bag she was holding. “I thought….I would bring you some breakfast.” 

Angela smiled, trying to hide the tension in her eyes. “That’s really sweet.” She opened the door the rest of the way. “Ah, it smells good, too. And I just made tea.” 

“Sounds great.” Olivia did her best to hide her surprise. She had never before seen Angela first thing in the morning. Even as her stylist, she hadn’t seen her so disheveled. “Ang, are you alright?”

“Yes.” She looked down, self conscious. “I just woke up, is all.” She smoothed her hair down and led Olivia to the table, where she set out another teacup and saucer. 

Both of them were less talkative than they usually were. Olivia feared her behavior could seem out of the ordinary. The usual Olivia would wonder about the letter, so she forced herself to articulate the question. “How did your practice go…?” She tried to mimic her typical flourish of intrigue, but had questionable results. 

Angela inhaled. How foolish could she be to not prepare an answer? She already could feel herself blushing. “It….it was alright.” 

“So you read lines with her?” 

“Yes….” Angela stared at her hands in her lap, fiddling with her fingers. 

“How’d it go?” Olivia acted surprised at her shyness. “….Are you alright?” 

“....Y-yeah. And it was fine. The first time, you know. But I do admit that she writes a decent opera. I don’t think….” She grew pale. “....I don’t think Amélie has to worry about its success this season.” 

“That’s good to hear.” Olivia nodded, averting her eyes from her friend for a moment. Angela was a gifted singer but she needed to work on her acting. “Did you, uh, get a good look at her?” 

“No, she was….somewhat in costume. I don’t think she’s someone I’ve met before, though.” She glanced up thoughtfully. “She has short red hair. And she has very….strange eyes. They’re different colors. Otherwise….you know as well as I do.” 

Olivia smiled, watching Angela closely. “A mystery still, even in person.” 

Angela bit her lip. “Yeah….I will probably try to avoid practicing alone with her again, though.” 

“Oh?” Olivia tried to avoid showing any reaction at all beyond mild curiosity. 

“....Just too much. Anyways, we always appear with other characters.” 

“I see.” Olivia finished her tea, averting her eyes and allowing her friend to deflect the topic. “As long as you’re sure you’re alright. You’re not in any danger?” 

“I’m not. I’m okay. Just tired. I might just rest today.” 

“That sounds fair. I probably need to head out anyway. Just thought I’d drop by.” 

“Thank you, Liv. It was lovely.” Angela smiled genuinely, then stood up to see off her friend. 

x-x-x-x-x 

Olivia bit her lip. She was never anxious around Amélie, but today her hand shook as she knocked on the door to her office. A voice from the inside hummed in approval, so she pressed open the door, her heart skipping. 

The vicomte was at her desk, seated as if she were the subject of a painter’s magnum opus. Her chair framed her as she regarded her paperwork and lazily tilted her pen back and forth between her fingers. “Ah, Olivia.” She didn’t immediately look up. 

“Hey Amé.” Olivia was quiet for a moment, letting her eyes wander in the space around the other woman. She still had no idea what she wanted to report. Amélie shuffled through her papers, her attention elsewhere. “Angela says she’s tired, so we probably won’t see her for dinner today.” 

“Oh? I hope she’s not ill.” She set down the papers and looked up. 

Olivia was unsure if the vicomte was told about Angela’s practice. But the likelihood she knew was high. She always seemed to know everything. So she stood in silence, her mind vacillating. 

“Liv.” Amélie’s gaze cut through her. “What’s wrong? Is Angela alright?” The vicomte’s voice remained controlled, without anger, but was curious and mildly concerned. 

Olivia looked at her hands. “She’s alright. She….” She doubted she could hide it. “....she rehearsed with the phantom last night. It was late. Until I….don’t know how late. But this morning she seemed okay, just tired.” 

“....I see. I’m glad Angela is alright….So the phantom came in person?” 

“Yeah. She told me that she thinks the opera is pretty good. The production won’t be a disaster if it must be performed. And….she’ll just do group rehearsal after this.” 

“Ah.” A look of puzzlement crossed the vicomte’s face. “You’re sure she’s alright? She must be spooked.” 

Olivia nodded. 

The vicomte continued. “Her decision is probably best.” She blinked and tapped the pen against her chin, thinking. “So….the phantom will make herself known.” 

“I guess. I don’t think its been articulated yet. But Angela said she’s pretty certain she hasn’t met her before. But she had red hair. Mismatched eyes.” 

“Mismatched eyes….” Amélie suddenly straightened and furrowed her brows. 

“Are you familiar?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

Olivia waited as the vicomte thought for a long while, mumbling indistinctly, but the only conclusion she could find was that it couldn’t be the only person that came to mind at this description. 

“I guess we’ll find out.” Olivia smiled slightly. Something made her stop there. This would be up to Angela. Olivia decided her trust and protection for her friend stretched farther than this incident. If anything broke, it would be on Angela’s volition. Maybe everything would go back to normal. She felt a pain in her chest, but she knew that she would never want to trade Angela for anything. 

x-x-x-x-x 

Angela finally arose from lying on her bed, face in her pillow. She sat at her desk, laying her head in her arms for several minutes. Two parts of her were warring, and she already felt like mourning the loss of this novel bliss, but she knew what she must do. 

_Moira,_  
Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to press her pen onto the paper again.  
_I cannot go on like this. I’m sorry._  
_I don’t know what came over me. And I know this will hurt you._  
_But I cannot write to you anymore._  
_If I were any other person besides myself, I would be with you._  
_If I were born to a freer vein._  
_But what has been planned is the only way I can go._  
_I must respect my fiancée, who is a good woman._  
_This is best for me, and probably for you too._  
_You said I deserve better, but you deserve better, too._

_With all my love,_  
_Votre ange_

Angela bit her lip, feeling an intense weight on her chest. This couldn’t wait. So she left her house and walked down to the opéra. It was dark outside now and the street was quiet. A part of her hoped someone, anyone, would step out to confront her. To console her. To scold her. To remind her. To enable her. But nobody emerged. 

She walked into the operahouse via the staff door. Was Moira always here? Could she know that she just entered? She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Moira, though. Her heart was a terrible bruise, seeping black blood across her chest and into her throat. But there was no sound. 

The letter seemed locked into her hand, and it needed great force for her to pry open her fingers. But Angela finally left the letter beneath the dressing room door, then made her way home. 

x-x-x-x-x 

Even with the warm morning light shining onto her bed, Angela did not want to get up. Her body still ached, and she rolled onto her side. The deep pit of guilt in her stomach was still there, even with the letter she had written. It made her afraid to see her beau, but her avoidance of their plans struck her guilty in a different way. So she pulled herself up and got ready to see her. 

As she approached her door to leave, Angela blinked. A letter had been pushed through her mail slot. She inhaled, pressing her lips together, then knelt to examine it. 

_À mon ange,_  
Angela winced, tasting metal. The handwriting looked much messier.  
_I understand._  
_But please see me one last time._  
Angela read on, butterflies in her ribcage, where Moira had written a description of how to reach her and at what time.  
_You have my heart._

_With all my love,_  
_Moira_


	14. Angela's Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira is visited by her angel.

Emily never questioned what her aunt made her. She remembered when she was a child she would sit at the table kicking her good leg absentmindedly, eating her pudding or her toast. Her aunt would approach her with warm tea she had let cool down so the child could drink it. The smell and texture were always different than their usual morning and afternoon tea, but she would hold it in her hands and sip at it. It was always slightly different but still tasted how Moira habitually sweetened Emily’s tea to make it more palatable to the small child. Often it had a bitter or sour undertone due to its medicinal qualities, but even this picky child would trust her. Usually it did help with some element of the stiffness or pain, or at least was preventative of an attack or improved her general energy.

But her aunt was never satisfied. Every day she would work tirelessly to improve and innovate her treatments. She wanted Emily to be able to move and feel as she did before her virus.

Strangely, Emily did not actively mourn her leg for long. During the first months the intensity of such a loss weighed on her chest and paralyzed even her healthy limbs, but she barely remembered it by now. She imagined Moira remembered this time better, as she took care of her niece and witnessed her pain. 

This girl was an energetic child, though, so the rough twine of resilience grew taut. She was a poppy sprouting regardless of her surroundings, her stem thick and strong, if coarser. A stubbornness ran in her family as such. So her pain would dent and hinder her, but she would spring back up on a brighter day. Her leg became an annoyance, and she would fashion ways to peel off her brace and cane to achieve her speedy pursuits.

It was Moira who could not forget. Even on a day where Emily’s pain was minimal and she was ready to venture out, her aunt would see her leg and her limp, and her mind would pour forth more ideas for a solution. Sometimes it made her sleepless again.

After so many years away, holding another of these cups of tea soothed Emily’s heart more than she had felt in a long while. She knew her sisters loved her, but they often expressed theirs by speaking over her or making decisions for her. She never sensed from them such a profound and honest feeling. Now Emily was touched by its depth again, but sometimes a pull deep within her wanted her aunt to give up. She almost wished her aunt could stop looking at her as a failed patient rather than her niece, regardless of her condition. But she knew this was how she expressed love.

She looked up at Moira as she finally sat across from her. Entering her presence flooded Emily with a unique serenity, even as she perceived the unending turning of her mind. She sipped at her tea. It was refreshing to be able to sit in comfortable silence and not let it loom as an obstacle between them. It was only now that she could detect the signs of age in her aunt. Tiny creases framed her eyes, especially as she sat there, deep in thought. 

“Aunt Moira. You’ve really been trying to find a cure this whole time…?” Emily continued to watch her aunt, nursing her tea.

“Yes, of course.” She sounded as if there couldn’t possibly be another answer.

“You haven’t studied anything else?” Emily was both surprised at and expected this answer. She was touched but also hurt that so much energy was spent on her. 

“Well. I’ve been studying one topic, and I’ve discovered much, but nothing has been what I’ve been looking for. Until now.”

Emily knew that she couldn’t steer Moira away from studying for this cure. Nothing could stop her, especially if she’d found something promising. “Angela’s voice? Yeah….I’ve seen too what healing powers it can have….” Emily rouged slightly as she remembered Lena’s face descend from the cliff edge of anxiety into the clear pool of relief. She sighed lightly, looking forward to seeing the pilot’s earnest smile again. Lena had once again invited her to stay with her, but Emily wanted to stay with her aunt. She hadn’t seen her in so long, and being here was pleasant and spoke to her nostalgia. Lena, of course, was so gracious, and Emily looked forward to seeing her again.

One thing still nagged at Emily. “I can see why you want to study it, but how do you plan to do it?”

“That’s what I need to discover. I haven’t been able to collect fine details yet.”

Emily took another sip, knowing how distant Angela was from her grasp. “How will you?”

“She….might visit today.” Moira’s face was unreadable.

Emily jumped some and looked up from her teacup in surprise. “What! She’s coming here?”

Moira averted her eyes, studying her nails. “I told her to. I’m unsure if she will.”

“Should I reschedule my plans with Lena? Can I help you at all?” Emily was shocked at how forward Moira was being with this hypothesis. She normally would step back in such a situation. It seemed like her mind kept wandering back to Angela throughout the course of the day.

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I want you to be able to see her.”

“Only if you’re certain….” Emily faltered, protective of her. She wasn’t sure what would happen if Angela came here. But she felt uncomfortable demanding to stay, so she stepped back.

x-x-x-x-x

“Ah, Angela.” The vicomte lifted her gaze from the table, drumming her fingertips along the edge of her scar. “I hope you’re feeling better today.” Then she stood up, unfolding to her impressive height. The breeze made the edges of her blouse billow, even as it was tucked into the high waist of her riding pants. She was gentle as she bent to kiss her belle’s cheeks. 

Angela already blushed, averting her eyes. “....I am, thank you. I’m just tired.” She felt the same breeze playing at her skirt. Her mind reeled, trying to think of what to say. She felt made of stone. She shut her eyes. “The sun feels nice, though. It’s starting to warm up.”

“It is, indeed.” Amélie paused, looking directly at her. Angela was sounding rather robotic. The blonde seemed to shy from her gaze. “The vines are beginning to bloom now, too.”

Angela brightened some, but avoided eye contact, looking over the banister of the terrace. “Ah, are they! I’d like to see.”

Amélie smiled slightly, offering her arm. Angela just barely grasped it, keeping to herself more than usual. She led her down the terrace to the path to the vineyards. “You seem lost in thought, Angela. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Angela looked away, ashamed. It was strange for Amélie to ask something so personal. “....Yes. Just haven’t completely recovered yet, I guess.” She laughed lightly but full of anxiety.

The periods of silence between her and her beau was normally pleasant, filled with her presence, but today it ate at Angela. So she scrambled for a topic in her mind.

“I, uh. Do you often think of the past, Amélie?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like….” Angela wasn’t sure what she was saying. “Do you ever think back on the past and miss how it was before? Or do you wonder what would have happened if you’d made a different decision? If it would have been better?”

The vicomte paused. “I can’t say I do often. You can’t do much to change the past. So there isn’t much of a point. What’s important is the future. You can still determine the outcome.”

Angela wasn’t sure what she was searching for, but the answer did not satisfy her longing. She let go of Amélie’s arm. They walked further in silence, which the vicomte appeared to tolerate without issue.

The flowers were strange but beautiful, and the surrealness of delving deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of vines made Angela’s mind swim. She was enveloped in a lovely sweet scent, but she also felt like she could pass out. She felt her beau place her gloved hand on her shoulder to steady her. Before thinking, she whipped away from the touch, and beads of sweat formed at the nape of her neck.

Amélie didn’t move, just left her hand hovering in the air. Her belle had never done anything like that before. “I apologize, Angela.”

Angela tried to compose herself, curling in embarrassment. “I-it’s alright. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” She feigned great interest in a branch of grape blooms, turning the odd flowers around in her hands.

Amélie watched her for a moment as she regained her composure, coming to a conclusion. “You’re welcome to do what makes you feel best, Angela. In fact, please do. If being here is too much, I understand.” Her voice grew strangely soft. “If you must go home and rest, it’s alright.”

The vicomte held out her arm and this time Angela approached her. They turned around and Amélie led her slowly back to the terrace, her hand on her back. She turned to Angela, who looked up at her with an apologetic grimace, kissed her on the forehead, and sent her off.

The vicomte stood at the banister, staring out over the vineyard. A few minutes later Olivia rushed outside with some dishes. “Oh no, Angela has already left?”

“Yes.” Amélie continued to stare out. Olivia groaned audibly in disappointment.

“Something is really disturbing her.”

Olivia nodded, agreeing. “It seems that way.” She bit her lip in response, trying her best to feign ignorance, but hid her anxiety behind a show of struggling to balance the dishes. Then she set them on the table, looking to the vicomte, who didn’t react further. “This is ready, regardless,” she mumbled. “Such a shame.”

Amélie finally turned around and took a seat. “I suppose it’s yours now, Liv.”

Olivia smiled slightly, still feeling for Angela. “I guess I’ll go grab the wine first and--”

“Actually I might save that one and take it to Angela later.”

“Ah,” Olivia said. “Good idea.” And she sat down across from her.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela felt as if her heart could stop any moment. Why was she going? Why was she following the instructions from the letter? Regardless of what template her logic read aloud to her, the reality was that her feet were leading her through the dimming street back to the operahouse. Her memory of the curly penmanship was almost tangible, like the tip of a pen scratching against her skin. She tasted a metal in her mouth. What was it she wanted? Why could no force she could generate stop her from proceeding? She should have just thrown away the letter, but instead she let its crisp paper crinkle inside her pocket for most of the day.

Alas, and here she was. She felt if there was an iron fence here, she would somehow just walk through it, as if she was controlled by some hovering force above her head. But there was no fence. There was no barrier at all as she made her progress. The entrance to the operahouse was darkened, but the door gave way easily in her hand, even as she hoped for it to be locked. Maybe she was possessed. Maybe she was under some sort of charm she read about in stories as a child. But her guilt bit at her. No. There was nobody accountable except herself. The anticipation welled in her and she could feel it realized through her palms and her throat.

Angela walked to the back hallway, past the furnace and down the stairs to the door. She paused for a moment, running her fingertips down the dark wood grain, bringing her face close to it. Her heart skipped, then she opened it. The sound of it swinging open seemed to echo forever, as if the inside of the earth was one large cavern stretching to oblivion. But here were the catacombs, which she had seen before but was not incredibly familiar. She hesitated for a moment at her outburst, but then stepped in, allowing the door to shut behind her.

“Welcome.”

Angela was immediately submerged in this voice, covered in the calming pressure as if she were taking a warm bath. She shut her eyes for a moment, relishing the sensation. 

Moira was patient, waiting until her eyes opened. When they had, she gestured to where she had opened the hidden door. Angela stared at her, though, not moving. The tall woman’s face was uncovered. Angela didn’t know what she had expected, but here she was. Her face was pristine and incredibly sharp. It completely arrested her, especially as she looked into her strange eyes. After a moment she finally stepped past through the door, brushing close to her arm, into the strange room.

The fire crackled and warmed the otherwise damp cold of the underground. Angela’s eyebrows rose as she saw the array of glassware and materials that lay out before her. A part of her deep inside wanted to draw close to the other woman and tuck herself against her shoulder. So she pulled away. She began to harden her resolve. “I-uh…” 

But then Moira made eye contact, and Angela softened, sighing because she wasn’t able to draw it out. She turned and approached the materials instead. None of it seemed dangerous to her, but relatively benign. She approached in curiosity, holding her arms close to herself so as to not touch anything. “You….make medicines?”

Moira seemed a bit confused at her reaction. She wasn’t disturbed or disgusted at all by the lab, but genuinely intrigued. “Yes.” She winced slightly, holding her arm. It took a great force of will to suppress the convulsions in her arm.

“Oh, I see….” A remembrance seemed to flash across Angela’s face. Since the information seemed available, she took another step. “Why….do you stay hidden?”

Moira responded with a slight smirk that twisted forth from her wince. “I would rather avoid being disturbed. Others don’t always understand. But I only make medicines to help, not to hurt.”

“I believe you.” Angela looked at her suddenly. She furrowed her brow as she watched her hold her arm, but was afraid to ask her about it.

“--Ah. Thank you. Anyways, I’ve always been here. I haven’t felt a strong enough impetus to leave yet.”

Angela looked back down, concerned. “I see….”

“The energy feels promising here. It doesn’t everywhere.”

Angela bit her lip. “I think….I feel it too.” She really could. The force drawing her towards the other woman was winning. She found herself stepping back in her direction.

“Have a seat, Angela.”

Angela was enraptured by her voice as she said her name, but she went over to sit at the table as Moira gestured. A candle flickered in the center of it. Moira sat across from her. She lifted a bottle of wine and uncorked it, then poured two glasses. Most of her movements were performed with her left arm as she pressed the other to herself.

“Have some wine.” 

Angela lifted the glass and sipped. It was very familiar. She watched Moira take a sip, too, watching her strange eyes over the flickering of the candle.

“Our precious vicomte’s blood, sweat, and tears.” The alchemist laughed haughtily, short and rather ironic. “LaCroix has always made such good wine.”

Angela nodded, averting her eyes and taking another sip. She tried to ready what she wanted to say to Moira.

“Now, Angela. May I ask you something?” Her voice was earnest.

The blonde’s gaze returned to her face. “Of course.”

“Now I know what you said to me, but I wanted to do one experiment first.”

“One….experiment?” Angela was confused. That was not what she expected Moira to say. She knew that a declaration of love was not what would make her feel better, but something deep in her heart was disappointed.

“Yes. I need you to sing.”

“To….sing?”

“Yes. Have you….have you noticed there is healing power in your singing?”

Angela remembered how each time Captain Oxton approached her, she had mentioned something like that about her performance. “I….may have been told, but I don’t know what it means.”

“It’s quite literal. I….” Moira looked away, saddened. Her voice grew very quiet. “Look.” 

The alchemist looked down at her right arm and sighed, then unbuttoned the cuff. She pushed up the sleeve on her shirt.

Angela’s eyes widened in shock and concern. “It looks like it’s very painful.” Moira seemed somewhat surprised at her answer. Angela continued. “Does it hurt you…?” Her voice echoed with genuine worry.

Moira pressed her lips together, self conscious, then nodded. “What is….what is the most unbearable is when it spasms, and when I’m temporarily unable to control it.” Angela could barely hear her voice.

“And if I sing….it’s better?” Angela was very soft.

Moira nodded. “....Its effect lasts for a few days, actually.”

Angela blinked several times. “Then of course I’ll sing for you. I’ll--”

Moira cut her off. “What’s important is for you to sing while I boil the remedy I’ve been working on. For Emily.”

Angela regained her composure. “Emily….?”

“Yes. She’s my niece. And ever since she caught the virus, she has had pain and paralysis in her leg. I’ve been searching for a cure. And so far…. All I’ve gotten out of it is this arm. From when I thought. From when I thought I had found the answer.”

“Then of course I’ll sing while you make it.” Angela’s voice was soft and open, but carried a great deal of weight. “I want to help you. Both of you.”

Moira returned her gaze to Angela’s face. “You can’t know how much that means to me.”

This answer hit Angela’s chest like a cannonball, and she ached deep inside for this woman. The pain and patience was tangible, and she wanted to take her into her arms and hold her. Moira scowled at the pity, but took it for her niece.

Moira stood and strode over to where she had begun to mix the remedy. “Now sing Pénélope’s hopeful song. I wrote it so the notes would optimize the effects of your voice.” Hope dripped from her words.

Angela frowned. Was that all the song was? Optimizing the effects? Once again there was a disappointment deep in her heart. Regardless, she began to sing.

Soon the alchemist’s face relaxed in great relief, and she let go of her arm. Angela watched as she carefully measured and mixed the ingredients before finally setting it to boil over the fire.

By the time the remedy was complete, Angela had sung the song five times. She was feeling a great fatigue in her chest as she felt the energy from within her swirl into the mixture. But finally Moira took it off the fire. “Thank you, Angela.” She seemed sad all of a sudden. “That is all.”

Angela blinked. “But how do you know if it works?”

Moira looked up again. “I don’t know yet. I have to wait until Emily returns.”

“Well, I….want to know.” Angela stepped towards her. She paused, unsure what she wanted to do. “Can we try it on your arm?”

“I….” Moira began, but then paused. “I suppose we could. The effects won’t be as strong. Especially since your singing itself is like a dosage.”

Angela stepped closer. “I’d like you to try it.”

“Alright.”

Angela watched her as she dipped her left hand into the mixture, then spread it across her right forearm. “Moira, wait.” The pair of mismatched eyes darted up to her face, surprised. Angela then dipped her hands into the mixture. It felt like warm silk. “Let me.”

She took Moira’s right hand into hers, beginning to caress the mixture into her skin. Then she began to sing. Moira shut her eyes. The remedy felt heavenly, relieving all the tension and pain. It felt like it warmed her arm to the bone, even where it had felt chilled for so many years. She leaned towards Angela, resting her head on her shoulder. Angela tucked her under her chin.

When Angela was done with the song, she looked down at Moira’s arm. “Oh! Moira. It even looks better!” A joy filled her, almost tangibly as it filled her chest and throat. “Look!”

But Moira didn’t look at her arm. Her arm had never concerned her much. She was staring at her angel’s face, which was glowing with delight and care. She had planned on the most gracious gesture: letting Angela go so she could live with her beau, unconflicted. But now she sensed this love and magnetism from Angela more than ever, ever since she arrived here. 

“Mon ange….” Her voice was faint, almost a breath as it cascaded through her lips. Angela looked down at her, and the tug was too much. The angel’s hands, still incredibly warm, cradled Moira’s face, then she leaned forward to kiss her deeply.

Once her angel let her go, Moira stared into her blue eyes for a moment. Angela was transfixed in turn. She had never felt like this before. Her heart was on fire. She pulled her closer, but before Angela could kiss her again, Moira spoke. “Mon ange….will you marry me?”


	15. Providence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela reacts. The vicomte shows a new side of herself.

“....Angela?”

The vicomte graced her belle’s doorstep. She held the wine in the crook of her arm as she, once again, knocked on the door. A swift but robust knock. She turned to Olivia. “She went home to rest….” She frowned up at the window. “It seems like nobody’s home.”

Olivia bit her lip. “Yes, she did.” She glanced to the side and scuffed her shoe on the ground.

Amélie sensed her anxiety and stared at her skeptically, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you know where she might be?”

Olivia’s mouth felt impossibly dry. “I….I don’t know.” She truly didn’t know precisely where Angela was, but her stomach was sinking. “....But. She has been concerned about the phantom.” 

The vicomte’s face grew pale and firm, almost harsh, thinking of her ghostly visitor. “Do you think--.... Do you think she’d really--” She stopped short. A frustration grew in her throat as she began to doubt her own judgment. 

A horrible feeling curled into Olivia’s throat as she watched this unshakable woman struck with such a force. Something smashing past her impenetrable defenses.

“....Do you really think she’s kidnapped her?”

x-x-x-x-x

A cold realization wrenched away the warmth consuming Angela’s senses. She stiffened and pulled her face away from Moira’s. “....what…?”

The blonde laughed lightly, a sound that rang with an alien quality. It must be facetious. “N-no, I mean. I’m already--” But she stopped short as she realized her mistake, as she saw Moira’s eyes glass over.

Moira recovered from her alarm at the sudden flash of ice between her and her angel. She shut her mouth and slowly sat up. The wave of confusion and revulsion was visible across Angela’s face, and it made Moira feel as if her body was rotting away.

Angela was reeling, barely able to move. She felt like she was submerged, but kept inching backwards until she no longer touched Moira. Her hands suddenly felt cold, and she slowly looked down. The remedy dripped from her hands like cold water.

Moira allowed her sleeve to fall back down over her arm. She was dazed, barely able to hold up her head. The room was spinning wildly. “Angela….”

Her blue eyes, full of panic, met the others’ briefly. “I can’t….I can’t be here any— I have to go.” She crossed her arms over her chest and turned towards the door.

Moira opened her mouth to speak, but her body shuddered as her arm spasmed wildly. She bent over, trying to hold it still with her other hand. Angela looked to her and slowed, worried, but kept inching away.

“Ange--” Moira’s voice broke with the strain, and it took a moment for her to continue. “Why are you so devoted to _her_ ….! What has _she_ done to deserve that!”

Angela froze, her eyes frantically following the phantom.

“She doesn’t deserve such unconditional faith….!” Moira snarled. “How much do you even know about her, even after a few years?”

Tears were coming to Angela’s eyes, and she no longer could move at all. She was paralyzed by the vehement glint in the strange eyes. 

Moira could see a grey shape migrating across her angel’s face, but the passion had overtaken her and she couldn’t seem to stop, even as she saw the mascara bleed from her blue eyes. But then her gaze was completely obscured by blinding shadows, how the smoke is so dark but the flame is so bright.

“You don’t even know!!” Moira found herself stumbling against her. Angela’s drawing back and tensing in fear shattered her heart, but she still grasped her shoulders in both hands and shook. “She was ready to--....Look what she’s--....She’s essentially a _mur_ \--” But Moira stopped short, with an almost audible snap. Her arms fell, completely limp. Her body curled inwards, and she knelt to the ground.

The only sound for several moments was Angela’s ragged breathing. She was unable to move and could only watch the phantom as she hid her face in her hands. Moira felt how the remedy had grown cold, thin, and useless, dripping off her arm.

“....I am so sorry, Angela.” Her voice was so quiet and earnest, and she did her best to suppress the shaking. “I have no claim to you. You….and your voice, belong only to yourself, and….I want you to be happy.”

Angela tried to regain her control over her body, but she stood for another moment, stiff and breathing in and out, in and out.

“....You won't see me again….I promise.” Moira still hid her face, but her resolve was stony and sincere.

Angela inhaled once more, but uncrossed her arms. It seemed as if she loomed meters above the other. Moira sensed a blinding light shining down upon her. This was her angel, but an angel made of steel, of judgment rather than of comfort and warmth. Dozens of eyes. She gazed down at Moira for several moments. What Moira did not see was the softening of her scrutiny. How her brows came down from the gallows. The setting down of the axe. The archers called to lower their bows. The reigns slackened. The gentle blink that followed.

And then Angela left.

x-x-x-x-x

Once Angela crossed the threshold out of the strange room and into the dark labyrinth, she fled. Back up past the furnace, into the dark corridor. She was unable to run, but she rushed, trying to shake off the shock and longing that seemed to follow her like a shadow. Her heart almost stopped as she heard the sharp sound of the key in the lock of the main entrance. She paused in the hallway, trying as hard as she could to quiet her turbulent breathing.

The vicomte threw open the doors, almost like a tempest had burst them open for her. Angela could see her silhouette, so defined, outlined by the lights of the street behind her. It was like a halo painted around the hero of the epic. But she didn’t stay there long. She stalked forward with long powerful strides, brandishing her sword in one of her gloved hands. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Olivia scampered close behind her, a look of terror in her eyes.

Angela realized why she was here. The only thing that could instill such ire in her beau. So, even as she felt like she was walking in front of a tidal wave, she lowered her head and stepped out of the corridor into the open towards the exit. 

The vicomte’s eyes widened more than Angela had ever seen them. She immediately let her sword fall to the floor. She knelt and caught her belle. Angela could feel the tension in her beau’s body flow out as she dropped to the floor, and she was cradled gently in her arms.

“Angela….!” Amélie almost whispered. There was a long pause as she pulled her belle close, trying to calm her racing heart. “Angela….did she hurt you?”

The tears began to flow. Angela sniffed quietly, burying her face in Amélie’s shoulder. She shook her head emphatically, and once she started, she had difficulty stopping. Amélie pulled her closer. “Shh…. it’s alright now.” 

This was the closest she’d ever been to her, the most she’d ever touched her. There was a faint scent of cologne at her collar. Angela gasped for breath, trying to stop her crying, still shaking her head. She felt her beau’s gloved hand brush back and forth across her back, then Olivia’s presence as she knelt beside them. “Ang….”

After a minute, Amélie loosened her grip some to look at Angela. Her voice was low and somber. “Angela….are you sure she didn’t hurt you?” She saw how her belle’s eyes and lips were smeared, how her dress was stained. Angela began shaking her head vigorously. “No…. no. She didn’t hurt me….” Her voice caught in her throat. “She didn’t hurt me at all.”

Amélie pressed her lips together. The fury was welling back up in her ribcage. “I’m sorry, Angela, to ask this. But I must….Where is she?” She felt her belle tense. “I just want her gone from this place.”

Angela stared into her beau’s eyes, now dull and grey, glinting like her sword. She paused, quivering, but then shook her head again. “....P-Please….please no. She really….she really didn’t do anything.” Her tear-filled eyes pleaded up at her. “....Don’t. Don’t go.”

The vicomte glanced over at Olivia, who looked back up at her for a moment. “Okay….Okay. Hush.” Her voice was breathy as it grew gentle again. She tucked Angela under her chin, lifting her up. Her strides were soft as she carried her belle outside. Olivia bent to clasp the sword in her hands, then followed them out.

x-x-x-x-x

Once Angela was safely tucked into bed at the vicomte’s residence, the tall woman stepped outside to pace back and forth on the balcony. She scowled outward at the glittering lights of the city across her estate.

In every other time and place, she had everything in control. The cards were always in her hands. All the others always folded to her. But this time it was like a personal provocation. Something dangling just outside her reach but could turn the world upside-down. And now Angela was protecting her. She didn’t reveal an ounce of information. Amélie’s chest was aflame, defensive of her belle and her ability. Her scar began to hurt as she stalked back and forth.

“Amé.”

The vicomte turned towards the door as it cracked open, sending a narrow beam of light across the balcony. It was Olivia.

Amélie pressed two of her fingers to her brow. She was developing a tension headache. “Liv.”

Olivia opened the door and joined her on the balcony. She had not seen the vicomte in such a tumultuous state in many years, and she knew words could do very little. So she opened her hands and held them up in front of her, allowing Amélie to lean forward against her. And suddenly the hardened socialite was vulnerable again like when she was young, letting Olivia embrace her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not the end!


	16. Another Opening Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela tries to navigate her own mind. _Pénélope_ opens. Emily is defensive of her aunt.

Emily knew something was wrong the moment she arrived back at the operahouse, even though it stared at her dark and empty, as she expected. She made her way down to the lab as quickly as she could.

At first it seemed like nobody was home. The only movement was the tumbling of the fire. But as she scanned the room again, she saw the still shape of her aunt, crumpled to the floor, covering her face. 

“Aunt Moira!” Emily propelled herself forward too quickly to keep her balance, so she stumbled over to Moira’s side. She took a moment to catch her breath. “Aunt Moira….”

Her aunt was holding her face in her hands, but behind them her face seemed carved out of stone, her eyes staring into nothing. As she felt Emily next to her, she allowed her niece to wrap her arms around her and lay her head on her shoulder.

Emily had no idea what to say. She doubted Moira would answer her, anyway. She didn’t know what could have happened, but the amount of loss she could feel just radiating from her aunt disturbed her.

After a few minutes, Emily began to stand up. “Let’s get you to bed….ok?” It took a long time for her aunt to process the request, but she eventually stood up, moving as her niece guided her.

“....Emily.”

Her niece blinked, looking up at her aunt’s face.

“....I’m sorry.” Her voice was defeated, ringing hollow and listless. There was a long pause. “....I don’t think. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to cure you.”

And that was what she said. Emily had never heard anything remotely like this from her aunt. An indescribable feeling of sorrow flooded her senses. It wasn’t the fact she wouldn’t be cured. Long ago she had forgotten that as even a possibility. When her aunt had described it to her, she didn’t dwell much on the final result, but the love being shown to her in the moment. It was that Emily knew that her aunt’s purpose, her decade-old dream, had been obliterated.

“Aunt Moira. It’s okay. You don’t have to. You never had to.” Emily wrapped her arms around her shoulders, embracing her. “....I’m just so happy to see you again.”

When she stepped back, Emily offered her a sweet but melancholy smile, then helped lead her out of the room, a slow and staggering process.

Emily knew that Moira was not sharing everything with her. She knew that the remedy was held most sacred in her heart after years of striving for it, but the way she had depicted Angela was different than simply an ingredient, a device. The way she spoke was how an artist carved her marble, how the archiver brushed away the dust from her relic. Finding the component was striking gold, but in the resulting frenzy, her aunt had still pressed onward, so gently.

x-x-x-x-x

When Angela awakened, she thought for a moment she had lost her hearing. She heard only a faint ringing noise as she looked around the unfamiliar room. Amélie’s room. But it was clear nobody else had slept here. She sat up slowly, looking down at her lap. Maybe it was all a dream. She felt like she was moving through water. But it couldn’t be a dream. Her dress from last night clung to her, wrinkled now, and stained from the alchemist’s concoction. She squinted upwards. The window was shrouded in delicate curtains, but the midday sun still shone through, illuminating the room. She felt ill and if she were at home, she would want to bury herself under the sheets and disappear. A dull discomfort weighed on her, however, a feeling of exposure from waking in a new room.

The sounds finally came to her, distorted at first. Birdsong meandered in from the window. A breeze rustled through the curtains. Faint clatter from the kitchen drifted to her from below. Angela remained sitting there for several minutes, unable to find the strength to move, let alone face anybody.

But she was not in a position to decide. The door creaked open and she heard a small gasp. Olivia entered quietly, balancing a tray with a teapot and teacup for Angela. She approached her softly, sitting on the bed beside her.

“Hey Ang….” Her voice was gentle. A part of Angela felt soothed by the presence of her friend. She allowed Olivia to take her hand into hers.

“Have some tea.”

Angela was obedient and brought the teacup to her face. The warmth and scent were lovely, and as she sipped she felt it flow down through her chest. Olivia sat with her for a while, allowing Angela to control the silence. But when it became clear that Angela wasn’t going to speak, Olivia turned to her. “Ang. Did you want me to take you home? Or did you want to see Amé? She wasn’t sure, so that’s why she stayed back.”

Angela looked down at her hands. She just wanted to dissolve away.

Olivia watched her for a moment, then blinked, softening even further. “I’ll take you home.”

x-x-x-x-x

Olivia stood at the vicomte’s desk once again, pressing her lips together. There was no word from the phantom. Amélie rested her forehead on her fist, exhaling abruptly.

“Why on _earth_ would she demand to be in it if she just planned to disappear?” She knitted her eyebrows together.

Olivia looked down. “I asked Ang again, but she won’t talk about it. She keeps insisting she wasn’t hurt. But she barely even speaks now. So. I wonder.” She grimaced sadly. The paralysis of being completely unable to help her friend distressed her.

The vicomte’s gaze flickered. “I wish I knew what happened. But it’s her right not to tell us.” She tilted her pen between her fingers and sighed. “But she won’t even show where the phantom hides. Not even for her own protection.” 

Amélie shut her eyes for a long moment. “I suppose I have to select someone else to play Ulysses. Angela is okay with performing this opera?”

“She knows the lines for it. And as far as I know she likes it. But she might have changed her mind.”

“I’m not sure if we have enough time to change to a different performance.” The vicomte rubbed her brow with two fingers. “If she says she doesn’t want this one, of course I’ll change it, but she doesn’t let us know.”

Olivia scowled. “I guess you’re right….” She had already made Angela’s costume and had overseen the sets. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”

The vicomte looked up at her and softened almost imperceptibly, but Olivia could see it. “Thank you, Liv.”

x-x-x-x-x

Angela sat in her dressing room. It had taken so much strength to even enter the operahouse again. But she knew the season had to begin. She didn’t want to make anyone wait. She didn’t want to make Amélie have to make any more difficult changes. She felt a twinge of guilt already because she had somewhat been avoiding spending time with her beau these last couple weeks, and when she had seen her, she had been quiet and stiff. She wished she could fade away, but instead she had to prepare to stand center stage again.

Olivia had dressed her in the fantastic costume she had constructed. As she completed her friend’s makeup, her eyes reflected apologetically. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, Ang?”

Angela nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Olivia pursed her lips. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.” She moved to the side to look right at Angela. “Anything.”

“Thank you, Liv.” Angela smiled. She meant it. Olivia had been so sweet and patient with her lately. She was grateful for her friend.

Angela wished she could take her heart out of her chest. Since that night, a couple weeks ago now, she had dreamed of the phantom. It was always an intense period of pleasure followed by some horrible realization that interrupted it. She would sing or she’d get close, but then Moira would scream, or Angela would look down and see arms covered in spiders. She would wake up in a cold sweat with a cocktail of guilt and horror turning inside her. Her room was always cold, the house so dark. She had never been disturbed by living alone until now.

Practicing with a new counterpart helped her troubles with the lines and songs. She would always have trouble not imagining Moira’s sharp, attractive face as Pénélope appealed to her husband. She still found herself thinking of her, especially during her songs.

But no news came to her. Moira’s presence had completely vanished for the last few weeks. Angela felt a sick feeling in her stomach. What if something had happened to her? She felt she could suffocate on the lump in her throat. But what else could she do?

Olivia sensed her anxiety. “You’ll do great, Ang.” She smiled softly. “Amélie says she’s excited to see you.”

She finally jolted Angela from her haze. “Really?”

“Yes.” Olivia grinned and tilted her head to the side. “She really enjoys your performances a lot.”

Angela smiled back, shyly looking down. It was always amazing to her that she could captivate the vicomte in any way, but it rang a sad note in her heart for this particular show.

But either way, she had to portray Pénélope, though she no longer felt like Pénélope at all.

x-x-x-x-x

“O-oi, Angela. I never knew you could be better than perfect.” 

Angela smiled gratefully at the pilot. She could expect her approach after every show, and today she really appreciated the continuity. Lena’s sunny grin really lifted her spirits.

“Ah!” She laughed and blushed. “You’re flattering me, Lena. It’s so good to see you again.”

“Yer telling me.” Lena bowed to kiss her hand. “A few months can really feel like an eternity.” She looked to the side. “You remember Emily?” The pilot’s companion seemed surprised by the sudden reference, but she gave Angela a half-smile, which the blonde perceived as shy.

Angela did remember Emily. “Of course!” She clasped her hands together. It was a delight to her that Lena, who never missed a show, was accompanied by her date more and more often. Emily was quiet but seemed quite lovely.

Emily appeared quite nervous at the attention, twisting her cane in her hands, but the way she opened towards Lena was sweet and supportive. Lena let her clasp onto her elbow.

The pilot’s smile grew even brighter. “These songs sounded made for ya. A-and your costume’s even more gorgeous than before. I look forward to the rest o’the season.” She sidled closer. “The mystery’s kept alive, though, I see.”

Angela jumped. “Oh?” A pit opened up in her chest, but she did her best to maintain her benign smile.

“A-another openin’ show with an understudy!” Lena shuddered with excitement, but Angela bit her lip. Emily glanced at her date, but didn’t say anything.

“Izzit true? It was the phantom?” Lena’s eyes glittered.

Angela blushed, averting her eyes. “....Yeah.”

“D’ya think she’ll come back?”

Angela smiled sadly. “I’m not sure.” She knew Lena meant well, but she felt her throat closing up. She looked to Emily, who wore a strange, unreadable expression.

“I hope so.” Lena’a grin diminished to a small smile in response to Angela’s mood. “Th-the understudy was good, but y’know. The phantom would be more….exciting.” Her smile grew crooked to one side in intrigue, causing one of her dimples to appear again.

Emily suddenly spoke, her voice firmer than either of her companions expected. “She’s not just an _exhibition_. It’s clear by now she’s a person too.”

Lena blinked several times and turned to her date. “Ah, I-I s’pose yer right. ‘Scuse me.” Her face was earnest and apologetic, and her eyes wandered around the lobby, as if she were checking if the phantom could hear her.

Emily glanced at Angela again, unable to fully hide the steely glint in her eyes, but then reached over to tame a lock of Lena’s hair that had sprung out of place. Lena squeezed her eyes shut, reassured. Emily laughed lightly at her.

Angela stared at Emily for a long moment, and a flash of suspicion entered her mind. She thought to herself that maybe she was just sensitive, but the redhead’s comment unsettled her.

Lena smiled. “A-anyways, whoever’s with you, as long as you’re starring, you betcha I’ll come see it.”

Angela shook off her daze and smiled back at the pilot. “You’re so sweet, Lena. I look forward to seeing you.”


	17. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily breaks anonymity. Angela doubles back.

Because it was opening night, the guests lingered longer than usual, but finally they began to filter out after midnight. Angela was so tired she felt like she could sleep for weeks. Her beau was talking to the last few guests across the lobby, so she finally felt free to slip back to her dressing room. She pulled off the crown Olivia had pinned to her head and wandered into the hallway. Olivia hadn’t fluttered by in quite a while, and she wondered where her friend had gone.

“Hey, um. Angela?”

Angela’s heart stopped for a moment and she clapped her hand to her chest, thinking she had heard the rich voice of the phantom. But she hadn’t. Instead, Emily stepped into her view from around the corner.

“Ah, Emily! You startled me. Have you been waiting here all this time?”

Emily shook her head. She looked extremely somber, which disoriented Angela. The redhead paused for a moment, gathering courage, then spoke. “What happened….?”

Angela blinked several times, confused. “Happened….?” She began to rouge.

“....between you and….the phantom. What happened?”

Angela was caught off guard, completely disturbed. Her blush darkened to a beet red. “ _E-excuse_ me?”

Emily sighed impatiently, frustrated, but softened her demeanor. She was beginning to realize that she couldn’t avoid breaking her anonymity. She gathered herself as Angela stared at her incredulously, bewildered. “Something happened to the phantom when you came to see her. And now she won’t speak.”

Angela froze, but contrary to Emily’s expectations, a wave of relief perceptibly washed over her. “....you know her. I thought. I thought she was alone.”

It was Emily’s turn to be surprised. Angela’s demeanor had changed so quickly. “....yes. I do.” She fiddled with her cane timidly.

The realization finally struck Angela. “You’re _her_ Emily.” She was shocked she didn’t notice sooner. Her face crumbled some, unable to avoid thinking of Moira. She stared at Emily’s leg without meaning to. There was a long silence.

“She proposed to me.”

Emily jumped back to attention after having been consumed by the silence. “....what?” That didn’t sound like her aunt at all.

“Yes….I think we were very absorbed in the moment, and….” Angela, reddening again, pressed a finger to her lips thoughtfully. She tried to shake it off, but to no avail. “She almost….found success. But I might be why it didn’t ultimately work.”

Emily was watching such a complex cycle of emotions eclipse Angela. Her awe at the power of her voice, her joy at the spark of the remedy and her sorrow and guilt at its fall. How she was riddled with confusion about the proposal, but Emily could sense a buried yearning and curiosity hidden beneath her decorum. A coarse emotion, like an unrefined gem hidden in her chest.

The fury in Emily’s eyes eased some. Angela had not been as flippant with Moira as she had thought.

Angela looked at Emily, biting her lip. “She just wants to restore you.” She was intensely aware that she was potentially hindering her progress.

Emily looked down at her cane thoughtfully. “I know.” She suddenly felt very awkward and exposed.

“I….” Angela’s eyes grew heavy, very sad. Her barrier had been breached and it all flowed forth.“It’s not that I don’t care about her. Or about you. It’s quite the contrary. I….wish that I were living in a different time and place. I feel it would work wonderfully then.” Tears came to her eyes. “It wouldn’t be….so wildly inappropriate then.”

Emily was conflicted, but she was no longer heated. No words came to her. She was self conscious about coming forward and was unsure how to give closure to their interaction. She held out her hand. Angela took it, held it between hers for a moment, and then they parted ways.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela couldn’t sleep. She found herself at her desk again, sitting with her spine perfectly straight and each of her arms resting symmetrically on the arms of her chair. Her mind refused to empty itself, no matter how many times she tried to purge it.

What baffled her was how she felt more haunted by the lack of the phantom’s presence than she had by sensing her in every shadow. Now there was a gaping vacuum that tore away at her heart the more time she spent there.

She sighed, knowing she was about to be very foolish, but she couldn’t control the impulse. She took her pen into one hand and ran her other over the sheet of paper on her desk. She felt a desperate need to write, but had to wait a long while to find the words.

She wrote _My dearest_ but then crossed it out.  
_Moira,_  
_We have all missed you._  
_Everyone I’ve asked was looking forward to your performance._  
_And to be honest, I was too._  
_It wasn’t the same saying your words to anybody besides you._

_I saw Emily today._  
_I understand why she is so dear to you._  
_I am not satisfied with how I treated you._  
_I apologize._  
_I’ve realized that you’re somebody important to me,_  
_but making it so concrete spooked me._  
_You don’t deserve that. To feel that way._  
_I want to tell you I want to be around you._  
_I just need more time before I can describe the implications of that sentiment._

_I want to get to know you better,_  
_But your disappearance has made me fear that I won’t see you again._

_Fidèlement,_  
Angela paused, then signed.  
_Pénélope_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for their support! It’s so sweet. I’m amazed that the number of views aren’t all generated by me rereading my words, haha. I’ll stay diligent and write some more!


	18. The Beggar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulysses in despair.

It was the first time Lena had been able to look at the sky again. She could see forever, but the eternity was somehow soft. The sinking went on forever, but it was sinking into a soft pillow. She was tempted to let it swallow her. The last time she had to face it, the light sliced into her eyes like knives. She heard the sounds so clearly, even so long after. So she hadn’t looked up again.

But these nights after the opera always cleared Lena’s mind for a few days. Angela was the brightest star, and she opened up the clouds and chased the broken glass away. Even the dreams went away for a day or two, and her speech improved.

Lena had been afraid to admit to Emily that she had night terrors. She didn’t want to scare away her new darling. But in the morning she had been so confused to wake to daylight. It had been so long since she had. Her Emily had turned to her. “You didn’t make a sound.” The serene feeling the angel gave was a warm blanket warding away the bad.

But furthermore, something about Emily emboldened her companion. It seemed to be a latent quality in her. She was soft spoken, but seemed able to face anything. 

They stood on the balcony, hip to hip. Lena had swallowed, then let her eyes flicker upwards. Tonight it was clear, and they could see glimmers of starlight scattered across the sky. Emily quietly surveyed the pilot as they stared up for several minutes in silence. She could see the anxiety dissolve away while a peaceful awe washed over her.

“There’s somethin’ about them. It’s like they’re alive.” Lena let her little finger trace across Emily’s hand.

“Yeah….” Emily’s voice was airy. “They may be dim and flicker, but they stay.”

Lena looked back at her. “Th-they’re so tiny but for some reason they seem so big. Like I’m impossibly small.”

Emily gently giggled, then played along with her philosophical tone. “Does it make you want to be wild or be tame?”

Lena smiled. “Think I’d be tame no matter what, love. It’s you who’m not sure about. Not sure if you can ever be tame.” She brought Emily’s hand into hers, caressing her palm with her thumb.

Emily laughed. “I’m not sure about that. But I can’t ever seem to argue with that fa—.”

Before she could finish, Lena brushed Emily’s hair back and softly kissed her.

x-x-x-x-x 

Emily woke up early in the morning and kissed a ruffled, sleepy Lena goodbye. She smiled softly, reassuring she will see her tonight. Lena’s lips turned up and she nodded, but turned over and fell back to sleep. Then Emily returned to her aunt.

She remembered how, for her whole childhood, Moira had always arisen early to make tea. Mornings were always quiet times then, where her aunt crossed her long legs and read, often reading for hours until little Emily complained to her about being hungry. Thus Emily had always been comfortable with silence and playing alone. She had sometimes used this time to read with her aunt, as well, and it was how she had been able to understand her work, at least to an extent. Though, as she was a very energetic child, she often spent her time exploring or constructing elaborate worlds. Her leg had not slowed her all that much.

The fire had gone out. Emily was shocked, unsure if she had ever seen her aunt neglect it. A sick feeling crept into her throat. The room had returned into its natural character, as a clammy chill was allowed to enter as the river rushed by. Before, it had been a pleasant noise, but this morning it filled the room with an unsettling feeling.

Moira had fallen asleep in her clothes, crumpled onto her bed. Emily had never seen her in such a state. She bit her lip and approached her, than tapped her shoulder to wake her. “Aunt Moira….”

Moira’s eyes flickered open, stared ahead at nothing for a moment, then looked up at Emily. A grey color had settled unevenly across her face. She didn’t say anything.

Emily exhaled. It was getting worse. Moira has grown gradually more unresponsive since Angela had left. At first she had appeared sad but continued life as usual, but over time had grown more and more listless. The only time she’d really expressed much was when Emily offered to forego staying with Lena to stay here and help. Moira refused. She absolutely would not let her give that up, to the extent she was visibly upset. So Emily had gone. But she still felt guilty as she stood here.

“Hey.” She leaned forward on her cane to try to prop up her aunt. “Let’s make you some tea.”

x-x-x-x-x

Angela felt a loss, a heavy stone tethered and hanging from her heart. It had been weeks since she had heard from the phantom, and each day it gnawed at her more, no matter how much she tried to stop. She kept thinking of those strange eyes and the way they’d gazed at her as she’d applied the remedy. They were filled to overflowing. She thought of how the tremor of shock at Angela’s rejection caused everything to collapse.

Since, Angela had written a letter nearly every day. She had left them beneath the door behind the furnace. Every time she returned to the door, her letters were gone, but there was never a reply. With each performance, she felt her mouth grow drier and her passion fade. The words almost fell flat. She realized she only wanted to say these lines to Moira. But she didn’t want to let anybody down, so she kept appearing on stage, facing her full audiences, and faking the passion as well as she could. The crowd always stood and cheered, roaring with applause. She must have been successful.

It hurt her to see Amélie, standing at the railing of the box and publically applauding her belle as she sang about her lost Ulysses. She tried to clear her mind. What is wrong with her? What type of fiancée writes every day to a stranger? What fiancée deserves another overcome with guilt to the extent that their time together is affected?

But regardless, Moira’s silence corroded her judgment. Angela grew upset and frantically searched everywhere in the room for a reply. But there was no sign of anything. She felt like she had been driven out of her mind.

She sat in her dressing room. A stale taste settled in her mouth as she waited for Olivia to finish her makeup. Olivia normally chattered as she worked, but today she was quiet. Angela did not feel like filling the silence either. All her energy had been drained away.

“There you go,” Olivia said softly, adding her finishing touches. She gazed at her friend sympathetically. “Ang….”

Angela emptily gazed up at her friend in response.

“You can tell me….anything. I promise. It’s been awhile now. And….I’m worried about you.”

Tears came to Angela’s eyes, but she inhaled slowly, trying to keep them from smearing Olivia’s work. Olivia wrapped her arms around her, setting Angela’s head on her shoulder gently so as not to mess up her hair.

Angela was quiet for a moment, but then suddenly spoke. “....what if she went away? What....if something happened to her….?”

Olivia pet her shoulder softly. “....the phantom?”

Angela gave a small nod. 

“Isn’t she dangerous?”

Angela shook her head. “She’s not a bad person at all. She didn’t do anything wrong. If anything I hurt her….” Her voice caught in her throat. She tried her best to remain controlled and not tumble into an outburst. “But she’s gone now.”

“I’m sorry, Angela….” Olivia didn’t really know what more to say. Her heart ached for her friend. There was a long pause as she held her.

“Olivia.” Angela looked up into her friend’s face, suddenly serious. 

Olivia straightened. “Yeah?”

“Do you think you could try to find her….? Just to see if she’s okay, that’s all.”

“I….” Olivia bit her lip nervously, but the heartache seemed to tumble from Angela, and she couldn’t refuse. So she nodded.

A small wave of relief washed over Angela. It was nothing against the writhing distress, but it was something to hold onto.

Olivia stepped out of the dressing room to go ensure the others were prepared for the show. Angela sat for a moment more, fully costumed, clasping her hands between her thighs. Usually her mind was racing in these last few moments before the show, but it was surprisingly blank.

x-x-x-x-x

Moira knew she was taking a risk. But she couldn’t stop herself from stepping out into the lobby. It was deserted, as the people had gone to sit for the show. She had barely moved for the last few days, and her body ached. A cloud covered her eyes. 

_There is no practical reason for you to be doing this._  
_It’s over._

Moira scowled, furrowing her brows. She knew this, yet she felt this uncontrollable draw. _Mon ange._ Even if she couldn’t harness the power of her voice…. _even if she couldn’t help Emily_ ….the voice was still a spectacle in itself. Untamable like an ocean breeze or like a sunset. And the woman it came from….what a beam of light. It’s like she always wore a halo.

Emily had gone to see the opera again with Lena. Moira was glad of that. She wanted her niece to be happy. She wished the voice could have a more profound effect on her just from the stage. She wished she could open a bottle and catch it in the air like Emily had caught butterflies as a child.

Moira stepped into the hallway that led behind the stage. Maybe she was going to be caught. And then what? It didn’t really matter to her anymore. There was no point. With nothing to lose, she had the freedom to act on her whims.

But she suddenly paused, her heart skipping. That was unexpected. Angela’s dressing room was still occupied. A narrow ribbon of light stretched towards her. The door was ajar. Moira quietly approached it.

The faithful wife Pénélope sat inside, almost perfectly still. She could have been carved out of marble, except for the tiny details. Ulysses noticed them all, though he had to remain in hiding. Her thumb as it chased the other fingers as they sat between her legs. Her eyelashes fluttering as she blinked. The way her eyes refracted light. How could he let any of the suitors take her away from him?

Moira’s heart was restored from its petrified state, the stone softening, returning from the brambles. The tiny cuts stung. She almost gasped loudly as she stifled a sob.

Moira loved Emily with all her heart. She always had. She’d given her everything she could. But now. Now she was overcome with the most selfish thing she’d felt in a long time.

She loved Angela. She wanted to know her. To have her to herself. Even her sitting silently, even after she had given Moira a taste and then ripped it away. Even with no voice. She could just think of the deep virtue in this woman. How she was like a yellow canary and her decision to land on your finger was delicate and sacred.

Tears streamed down Moira’s face. She covered her mouth to keep from making any noise. Her whole body buckled in half. She cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. 

There was a long moment as Moira was frozen in place. She gathered as much of Angela into her gaze as she could. But a small gasp escaped from her hands.

Moira watched Angela’s body jolt at the small but distinct sound. “Hello…?” Her angel stood up.

Moira didn’t say anything, just slipped away as quickly as she could. 

Angela pushed the door open. She thought she saw a dark shape retreat down the hall, and she felt an electric shock of hope slice through her body. “Moira. Moira…?!” 

But she had gone.

x-x-x-x-x

Olivia hadn’t completely agreed with Amélie’s abandonment of finding the phantom. She knew that the vicomte cared about Angela, but her unconditional respect for her belle’s avoidance seemed too extreme. The vicomte was always concerned for Angela’s safety, but increasingly with her trust and her privacy. Olivia understood. Breaking those aspects could ruin a relationship, and Amélie strove to keep things as respectful as possible. She did not want to be in an arranged marriage where she was so solidly in power over her wife. She didn’t want to intimidate Angela. Olivia knew her well enough to know why she acted how she did, even if she had never confided in her.

But Olivia’s role was different, and she took advantage of it. She had become Angela’s good friend and was highly defensive of her. Something had struck her friend into paralysis, even days later, and it caused Olivia to pace, brainstorming. Beyond that, her superstitions piqued again. How could Amélie be content with such a destructive spirit in her new building? Plus even if she was just a person, she was so _strange_. When Olivia was curious she was persistent. And notorious for it. Why couldn’t Angela seem to resist thinking of her? Her mind swirled with questions.

On the other hand, her defensiveness of Angela seemed to clash with Angela’s longing. Her heart was not comfortable staunchly standing between Angela and what she wanted. She wanted Angela to be happy. The phantom was such an unknown force, but she enraptured Angela more than Olivia had ever seen before. Maybe it was a spell. Or maybe it was what Angela truly wanted.

Something inside her leapt at that thought.  
_Maybe the solution can make all of us happy._  
Olivia scowled. _No, no, no, no. That’s far too much like casting Angela to the wolves. You don’t even know if it’s safe! That’s only catering to one person._  
_But what if it’s what Angela wants? What if she is unhappy with the vicomte, in your personal paradise? What do you expect to happen, just have dinner with them but watch them return to their room at the end of the night?_

Olivia was angry with herself. She could no longer sit here, so she stood from her seat beside the stage, trying as hard as she could to keep from disturbing the song. She descended to the corridor behind the stage, then made her way to where she and Amélie had seen Angela appear on that fateful night. On the night of a performance she must be here somewhere. She would be listening to Angela sing. Olivia knew that. Even if she couldn’t find her now, she had most likely emerged from here and would be likely to return the same way.

Olivia had no idea what she would do when she found her, but the venom coiled in her throat. No matter what, the phantom wasn’t doing any good hidden away. Either she had to face Amélie and be cast away or force Angela to move on. Nothing could be solved without that. There would always be a shadow over the operahouse. 

“How does she cloak herself so well? Maybe it _is_ a spell.” One spell that enraptured Angela and another spell to hide any evidence she exists beyond what she chooses to display. “Damn.”

This corridor led to the less-visited areas of the building. The carpet of the corridor behind the stage was already showing age, while it was pristine here. It was easier to stay hidden here, of course, Olivia thought. She tried each door. One was a closet. Another two were locked. They were still possible but less likely. Then she tried the door at the end. The furnace pulsed and steamed, while the staircase gaped in front of her. Olivia kept the light off and stepped inside the room. “Ah!” She covered her mouth at her sudden outburst. The door at the bottom of the stairs was ajar. “The catacombs.” 

It was an obvious choice. Olivia knew it was more complicated, though. She and Amélie had scoured them, trying to find any escape route or evidence of her. They had searched every possible cache and couldn’t be tricked by a hiding place as simple as the catacombs. But there had been nothing.

Now Olivia knew differently. So she decided to wait here because she knew she would return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lena is sappy, but that's part of why we love her.


	19. A Deviation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a revelation during this performance of _Pénélope_. Olivia learns of the phantom's identity.

Moira leaned against the wall. She knew this opera by heart now. Her favorite way to experience it was with her eyes shut, letting the music spirit her away from this eternal purgatory. The love and faith from Pénélope whirled summer breezes around her, stroking her face. Usually she lurked in the shadows backstage to hear clearly while staying concealed. Today, though, she slipped into the vicomte’s dark box. Enough talk swirled around backstage for her to know that LaCroix would be away for business. Thus, she would be witness to Angela in her full regalia, and she wanted her eyes open for it. 

Someone else would be Ulysses, though, and Moira tried to release the surge of adrenaline at the thought by drumming her fingers on her knee. She knew Angela did not speak the same way to the understudy. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment, but she inhaled slowly and tried to sit up straight. A bolt of lightning struck her arm, almost as if it could sense her attempt to contain herself, and she scowled and leaned against the wall, clutching it, trying to remain quiet. The pain compounded and she writhed, biting her tongue.

The curtain was finally lifted, and here she was. Moira’s doubts vanished. Pénélope was perfect. She was crowned with laurel, an iconic Greek wife. She gazed around the room and began to sing. Moira knew this was only a small portion of her power, but she could already feel the silk ribbons bind her arm and whisper to it. Her shoulders sank as the tension began to dissolve.

Observing her story was a strange experience. It was heavenly to be able to watch Angela glow on the stage, but Moira felt so infinitely far away hearing her songs sung to someone else. She was an invisible being. But regardless, she was engrossed. Ulysses had to be disguised, anyway. Above the crowd here, she grew less and less concerned with hiding in the shadow. It was too far to see clearly from the other balcony. She gradually found herself leaning against the balcony railing, where she had the best view. 

x-x-x-x-x

Pénélope felt a strange awareness unlike she had felt in all the years waiting for Ulysses. It had been a blur, as her heart still beat, but she was suspended before the spectre of grief. If she knew her husband was gone, she could begin to cycle through, but here she was, years later, still hoping for his return. It had grown from a sharp sting of hope to the chronic ache of an empty bed, which was strange because the likelihood of his return must decrease as each day passed. But this awareness awakened with her, a whisper that he was near, like a deity’s touch to her mind. So her eyes brightened, observing.

She was accustomed to glancing up at the balcony beyond the spotlights, and she followed suit today, though she knew Amélie would not be present. But it was not empty. Halfway through the act, somebody was there. Her heart skipped and her voice almost broke. The person she had wanted to hear from for so long.

So she searched for those eyes, those strange but engrossing eyes, and she was loathe to break contact, even in her important scenes. Her head kept turning, allowing her eyes to return to that irresistible magnetism.

x-x-x-x-x

Ulysses never imagined that Pénélope’s eyes would meet his, even as he stood here. He was no longer the beggar, and now she could see him clearly, framed by the ornate banister and red upholstery. So by the time Pénélope reached her song of longing, tilting her head and imploring the goddess for this one favor of letting him return, she was singing directly to him.

Of course, Ulysses looked different to her. He had been away for what seemed like an eternity, ragged from travel and combat. But Pénélope was so relieved. A part of her she thought was long lost returned to her ribs.

Moira’s pain had evaporated now, as Angela’s voice rose to its peak, serenading her as if she was the only person in the room. There was a cord pulling their faces closer, and Moira was filled with a tangible euphoria. She could stand firmly now, gazing down at her angel, clasping her hands together over the railing.

The audience followed Angela’s gaze up away from the stage, and many of their heads turned. Maybe she was singing to her beau. No. It was a new but familiar stranger, standing tall like the vicomte, but with an immensely different aura. It was no longer the cool and stony strength, but a warm confidence, dark like blood. This was not one of Pénélope’s bickering suitors. This was her long-awaited recompense. Moira leaned over the banister towards Angela, who kept her eyes intimately locked on hers.

Angela did not notice how public this deviation was from her usual behavior. Her only thought was her fear that Moira had gone, or that something had happened to her. But here she was, and she didn’t want her to slip away.

x-x-x-x-x

When the song ended, Angela returned somewhat to her senses. The curtain fell for the scene and the audience boomed with applause. She looked to the side and the understudy just stared at her. Against her better judgment, Angela ducked to the side, gathering some of her skirts into one hand, trying to see if Moira was still up in the box. Maybe someone called after her, but she did not hear. She couldn’t let her disappear.

x-x-x-x-x

The phantom had lost her new posture, instead shrinking backwards away from the railing. She hadn’t meant to draw attention to herself. She had just been so entranced by her angel.

Moira managed to control herself, then slipped back into the corridor as the audience waited for the next scene. She felt beads of sweat collect at the base of her neck. What was she doing? It was over. Approaching Angela would only be a disaster. Freeze up and give up. But the overwhelming sense of hopelessness also made her want to stride out on stage and take her rightful place. If it didn’t matter anyway, why hide? Why not just go embrace her and sweep her away?

But she quivered. She wasn’t a monster like that. Or she hoped she wasn’t, but grew less certain every day. A caged canary wasn’t the same as one who landed on her finger unbidden. That was not a satisfying way to have it. She understood how much she had asked of her. She understood Angela’s situation. How could she do that to someone who means so much? Just having her footsteps grace this place made it worth living. So she retreated.

But upon opening the door to the furnace room, she froze. Someone was here.

x-x-x-x-x

Moira paused. Going back the way she had come would lead to having to face a wall of people who had seen her, unobscured. So she straightened her back and stood up tall, scanning the room. She finally located the intruder. “I knew it was you.”

Olivia stepped towards her, but she grew less bold and her eyes widened as she saw the identity of the phantom. A distant memory swallowed her in grey. This knowledge obliterated her plan of confrontation. She wasn’t sure if she wanted Amélie to know who it was. “....You? How are you here….?”

“Are you truly that surprised?” Moira’s sense of hopelessness reared its head again, and she felt lightheaded. Her low voice was piercing like a blade in the stomach.

Olivia bit her lip. “What do you think you’re doing, though….? Do you want to ruin her life?”

Moira narrowed her eyes at her, one dark, the other almost glowing in the half light. “I _implore_ you to recognize how ludicrous you sound, asking that of me.” Her frustration shattered her resolve and was whirling about.

Olivia averted her eyes in guilt. “I just want….Amélie to be happy.”

Moira’s eyes flashed. “Well, we can’t go back in time, now, can we.”

Olivia visibly flinched, losing all the steel in her demeanor. “What is it that you want? Do you want to hurt her….? For her to pay you….?”

Moira laughed aloud. “It’s so _droll_ that you think I spend much time at all thinking about your precious Amélie. I’m not _you_ , my dear. But if I had to make any demands….I just want a semblance of normality, Olivia. How it had been. And an end to perpetual trials and failures. The ownership of what’s mine. I know that you understand that. And nevertheless, I doubt you’re certain that the set path is the happiest? Or are there any martyrs involved?”

The other crumbled even more, and the phantom’s gaze seemed to slice through her. It was as if the phantom could read Olivia’s deepest thoughts. She wasn’t used to anyone being able to affect her like this, but it was in a soft spot close to her heart. Olivia’s voice was almost a whisper. “But why are you so concerned with Angela….? Why do you torment her?”

Moira kept her voice flat. “I didn’t get the impression that Angela was doing anything against her own will.”

Olivia felt a lump in her throat. “But something about seeing you makes her so upset.”

“Are you certain that’s the only reason she could be upset?”

Olivia fumbled, completely speechless now. There was a moment of silence and what seemed like a massive void between them.

Moira drummed her fingers together, her face dark, and her voice lowering. “Regardless, it’s irrelevant now. I asked her, and she rejected. So it shall be as you seem to want it.” She stepped forward, right in front of Olivia now. “So let me pass.”

x-x-x-x-x

Angela wildly looked around as she maneuvered through the corridor behind the stage. Other people, preparing for the next act, were milling about in the hallway. They glanced up, shocked, as she pressed herself past. Her long, ionic dress, a waterfall poured over her head, added resistance and kept slipping underneath her shoes.

She had no thoughts in her head, just the desperate plea for her to be able to catch Moira before she disappeared. It felt like claws were raking through her chest and stomach. The intense anxiety of danger to Moira was plaguing her, but she had no idea what she would do when she reached her.

But as she opened the door to the furnace room and burst through, she saw not only Moira, but Olivia, as well. Her friend had quickly tended to fulfilling her request, but the icy tension in the room made Angela hesitate. The two of them whipped around to look at her.


	20. The Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vicomte returns. Olivia makes a decision.

Angela almost collapsed, unable to catch her breath. The adrenaline was so overwhelming. She dropped the tangled handfuls of her dress and steadied herself. “Moira….wait.”

Moira turned to look at her, her face softening, but it was clear she hadn’t wanted to be found. She knitted her brows but smiled. “Hello, Angela.”

Angela had no idea how to respond, her heart racing from pursuing her so frantically. She turned to Olivia. “Thank you, Liv…”

Olivia nodded. “....anytime.” She looked between the two of them anxiously. Angela’s face was so soft, and her velvet blue eyes were earnest. Moira’s still eerily pierced through. Olivia lowered her gaze. She had no idea what she wanted to happen anymore. A pinprick of guilt accompanied every option now, and she felt dizzy. So she backed off, scuffing her foot, then returned to the corridor. She doubted she could influence Angela, anyway. This force was incredibly strong. And she realized she was the least important element of the equation. So she capitulated to Angela’s desires.

Angela did not follow her.

x-x-x-x-x

The vicomte returned in several days and was furious as soon as she was updated. She stalked back and forth across her office, and her manner seemed to cause the air to melt. ”Angela just leaves the stage after Act II? Why would she do such a thing!” The scar was clearly flaring, and she was pressing her fingers to it, but the power of her ire maintained her posture. “What happened! Do you know why she left?”

Olivia bit her lip. “I, uh.…” But she didn’t get to answer yet.

“We can’t have blunders like this! I’m going to have to refund all their tickets! We can’t have more bad publicity. We’ve already had our share!” The tall woman kept pacing, her rage and confusion palpable. “And what’s this I hear about the phantom? I thought we appeased her. I’m getting so tired of her….” The vicomte’s voice diminished to a growl.

Olivia’s stomach turned. She hadn’t seen Amélie so chaotic for many years. It was hard for her to come up with anything to say, as their usual banter was impossible. “She appeared at the performance.”

“She did? Did she demand to play her part?”

“No….but….she sat in your box. And. Angela sang directly to her….and did not connect to any of the other performers.”

_“What!”_ The vicomte snarled, but then righted herself. She was so overwhelmed by this bizarre shift in Angela’s behavior. “....I don’t understand. This isn’t like Angela at all….I hope she is alright….I’m not sure what influence this phantom can have. She makes her act so….erratically. Have you been able to talk to her…?” She was pressing both hands to her face.

Olivia wanted to approach and help her, but felt a certain fear of her intensity. “I tried to….but she sort of….disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” The vicomte’s eyes sliced through her. “She didn’t go home?”

Olivia timidly shook her head. “....I checked, and….” It was true that she had checked Angela’s home several times, but even as she knew where her friend was, she had never ventured back to the operahouse.

Amélie froze. She shivered, as if a ghost were passing through her. Her fire froze over, and it was as if the air was made of glass. “....She could be in danger. We don’t know what this phantom is capable of.” It would have been off to her that the news came to her in such a strange order, but her rapture muffled her inquisitive side. Olivia was relieved.

The vicomte stiffly stalked toward the door and began to don her boots.

“...wait, Amé.” Olivia’s voice was quiet.

The steely eyes turned to her and she paused, but said nothing. Olivia approached her, then softly moved Amélie’s hand from her face. She pressed her own fingers against the scar. The tall woman leaned into her touch, almost imperceptibly. “You have to wait for it to wane before we go. We don’t want it to incapacitate you.”

The vicomte grumbled. “We don’t have time for that.”

Olivia lightly hushed her, and her capacity to do that left her stunned. “We always have time.”

What surprised her more was that Amélie capitulated, setting her boot back on the ground. This fervor was due to fear rather than appearance and status. Olivia noticed the shaking as her shoulders sank.

Olivia did not stop pressing her fingers to Amélie’s face. The vicomte set her gloved hand on Olivia’s arm and leaned against her again. Olivia used all her mental strength to try to stop her heart from racing.

“Nah. No matter what, you’re superior to this phantom.” Olivia looked down at her, smirking and raising an eyebrow. A small snicker. She was ceding again, but she swallowed it. She just wanted what Amélie wanted. She always returned to that.

“I….don’t even know where she goes. It’s as if I follow her, and she just vanishes.” Amélie’s voice was quiet, and of a quality Olivia had completely forgotten she’d heard before.

Olivia bit her lip and looked away with narrowed eyes. “I think I know where they are.” Her voice was deep and quiet. She was dropping all the selfish motivation that had driven her to staying away this whole time.

The vicomte straightened, her eyes widening. “You do?” Her face returned to its usual firm state. The odd weakness she saw in Olivia caused her to refrain from asking why she was withholding so much information. She donned her boots and stood with a flourish.

x-x-x-x-x

A new fury had been born. The vicomte’s aura seemed to animate the air into the violent swirl of a tempest, strong enough to rip the leaves off the trees and rattle the cobblestones. It was as if an army followed her lead, a calvary with a tremendous clash. The sleeping giant behind her mild manner had awakened, inspired. Her eyes glinted like the steel of her sword. Nobody shakes her world, the world constructed by LaCroix. Nobody ruffles her into bewilderment and revealing her weaknesses. If you shake her fortress, she will rend yours with an earth-splitting earthquake.

Olivia trailed her, speechless, heart faltering, but her support unerring. Her loyalty was unshakeable, even through the biting grief of what she knew could never be. She would follow her royalty over the cliffs into the tumbling sea.

And so they burst through the doors, a pair that somehow held the passion of a thousand, and Olivia guided her to the darkened corridor, past the toiling furnace, and into the catacombs.

This time, Olivia looked around with a new wisdom, an ancient familiarity unearthed. And she could perceive the hidden door, as it was an open, unobstructed cavern before, in the window of her memory. She guided her champion with her glance.

The vicomte burst through, almost roaring as she entered, but as she digested what she saw, her voice left her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was strange for me to write Olivia so "weak".   
> It seemed wrong to me at first. She is always so calculating and socially mobile.   
> But I think it reveals a lot about her and her personal struggles, to reveal what she is "weak" about.


	21. A Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Origins. And a disaster.

The sun always flooded the room, filtered by the gauzy curtains. She lay on the bed listlessly. The flowers she had collected lay strewn on the carpet, ready to be pressed. But the typical afternoon apathy weighed her down. Lessons, done. Training, done. Ballet, done. Every day her heart broke as they made her leave the studio. She understood the instructor had to leave, but to every time she asked if she could stay alone, she was told it’s uncouth to spend so many hours with chalk on her knees. Anyways, she could get hurt.

What was the _point_? Just waiting the hours until the sun reddened, and she had to sit at the table. Her flawless face complimented. Talk of marriage. Talk of gossip of the distant relatives. She never uttered a word, and it took every ounce of energy for her not to pull the leaves apart with her fingers. Feed morsels to the dog.

Today she was determined not to go. To hear the comments of how docile she was that she refrained from speaking unless spoken to. No. It was that they did not deserve her insight. If all they were interested in was her mask, all they needed to see was her mask. And when she was told there was no longer chance of another heir, she planned on running this place right this time.

So today she did not change as she returned from fencing. She did not want the horrible itch of the skirts. The ruffles at her throat did please her, though, somehow, so she kept her blouse. The real prize, however, was…. She looked at the foot of her bed. Her new epée lay there, and it glinted in the light.

As a child, Amélie was always remarkable. But she was _bored_. Enough to cause her to feel she was being driven out of her mind. It was like a prison. Repetitive and the same every day as she watched the sun skip across the sky.

But for months now, as the evening approached, and the sun sank below the buildings, ribbons of light kissing her between the alleyways, Amélie slipped away from this fabricated life. Months ago the grate in the garden had finally come undone, as she had waited and waited, exacerbating the rust on the hinges as much as she could until it gave way with a dull clank.

Now she had a reason to survive through those horrible dinners, but as the weeks passed, she had grown more and more bold. She began to leave before dinner. It just took slinking into the kitchen, snatching some of the rolls from the pans, and sneaking through the garden.

The grate would squeal as she lifted it, sending birds flapping, but she could slip through. The catacombs were dusky and damp. But she didn’t care. She was free now. They wouldn’t be able to find her and she could go wherever she wanted. She could be whoever she wanted. So she would stride down the passageway, brandishing her epée as she went.

One night, several months ago, Amélie had walked right into the trap of another adventurer. Usually she was showered in praise for her attentiveness and unruffled demeanor, facilitated by her proficiency and ballet and fencing, but she was so accustomed to solitude here under the city. So when the pail of icy water splashed over her head, she froze with shock and fright. From around the corner came a raucous laughter and several footsteps. 

To Amélie’s surprise, another girl of about the same age emerged, but that was essentially the extent of what they had in common. She looked as if she hadn’t changed clothing for a week, her short dark hair was mussed and wild, and she was still beside herself laughing. But when she saw Amélie, she looked quite taken aback and blinked several times. “Who the hell are you?”

Amélie jolted, finally breaking herself of the shocked paralysis. “What a way to address the person you just assaulted.”

The stranger just gasped and broke into laughter again. “What planet did you drop from, honey? Not sure I’m the right person to get you back.” She was cracking herself up.

Amélie knitted her eyebrows. Incredible. The water still dripped from her hair and her blouse. But contrary to what the stranger expected, her face untwisted and appeared almost serene. “You were waiting for somebody.” She was realizing how intently the stranger was staring at her, but she did not crumble, maintaining her full posture.

“Yeah. I was suspicious somebody was following me.” The stranger cut her eyes but didn’t break her eye contact.

“Well it certainly wasn’t me. I’ve never seen you before.” Amélie studied her, returning her stare with a firm gaze.

“You come here often, huh? Well don’t get in my way. These are my tunnels.” The stranger’s eyes glinted at her, but Amélie could see she no longer had an aggressive edge.

Amélie scoffed, her stare unwavering. “I beg to differ.” She unsheathed and lazily twirled her epée. “But it depends what I am getting in the way _of_. Maybe we aren’t as opposed to each other as you think.” Her face was still expressionless.

The stranger’s eyes finally broke from Amélie and followed the glinting sword, and her lips turned up slightly. “Oh, really?”

Amélie watched her, almost smirking at how the other couldn’t stop looking at her soaked blouse. She opened her satchel and pulled out the rolls, offering one to her.

Amélie eventually began to anticipate their nightly rendezvous eagerly, and for the most part, they refrained from sharing more than their names. There was plenty of evidence to allow for assumptions, and eventually Amélie passively learned of Olivia’s homelessness and lack of family, but by then the rapport between them had strengthened enough to make it less of a shock. Amélie was often bewildered by Olivia’s lack of refinement, but it was really refreshing in comparison to the purgatory she lived in for the majority of the day.

x-x-x-x-x

The fateful day was in an October, a couple years later. The chill in the air seeped into the ground and seemed to radiate from the stone walls. Even Olivia, who responded to these high class formalities with a resounding “ho hum”, was excited to hear that Amélie had achieved prima ballerina.

“I’ll get you a ticket, Olivia.” Amélie watched her friend as she brandished the epée, amused by her cavalier attitude but fumbling, unpracticed motions. Once she even tripped with the sword, scarring the wall with a long white scrape. They then knelt to find sharp stones with which to carve their initials.

Amélie pulled a bottle from her bag, and they laughed as the cork was launched down the passage, bouncing back and forth from the stones. After the foam calmed, they simply drank from the bottle, handing it back and forth.

But after they had turned around, after the more profound darkness of nighttime seemed to follow them down to even the catacombs, after they were dizzy with drink, there was suddenly a searing flash of light that swallowed them even here. All sound evaporated except for a high pitched ringing, and then there was nothing.

x-x-x-x-x

When Amélie awakened, she was completely blind, but the world was not black. It was stark white, which somehow was much more menacing. The pain hit her suddenly, ripping her breath from her chest. Her leg. Her face. It was unbearable, but when she opened her mouth she had no voice. There was a touch to her shoulder, and it somehow soothed her even through the intense pain. A hand pressed relief itself into her face. She leaned into it. Had she died? If she had, maybe she didn’t mind. Even the small pinpricks of the needle stitching her face were worn away by this salve. The pain from her leg still tore and twisted, but the cool serenity from the remedy spiraled throughout it. Amélie heard a low voice humming to her, and she leaned against their shoulder as she drifted back to unconsciousness.

When Olivia awakened, the world was still a thick cloud of white, spinning and shifting, but a figure leaned over her. She couldn’t yet make out their face in the spiral. Then the pain came. It settled heavily on one of her brows and in her shoulder. Gradually her vision meandered back to her. The woman hovering above her was unfamiliar but had remarkable eyes and fiery hair. She looked so spooked, her eyes were ringed with pink, her skin grey. Soot was dusted across her face and her hair was awry. She was pressing gauze to Olivia’s head and shoulder, soaked with a cool, impossibly soothing balm.


	22. The Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vicomte and the phantom clash.

The lab lay bizarrely calm in contrast to the vicomte’s violent parade. Her grand entrance seemed to dull the crackle and glow of the fire. The labyrinths of twisted glass tubing and flasks reflected the light, outlining Amélie in an eerie glow. Her pause was not from relief or serenity, however, but from shock. The sight of the glass and the crystals and pentagrams swallowed her righteous anger and paralyzed her with an ancient torment. A paradigm shattered, shards flying everywhere.

Olivia bit her lip, absorbing Amélie’s overwhelming epiphany, glancing sideways at her heroine. There was a ghost over her face, and she knew that the scar must be hurting her, but instead of pressing her fingers to her face, Olivia saw she was gripping her blade, white-knuckled.

“....Where. Are you.”

The vicomte’s voice burst through the paralysis as a forceful whisper, and it reverberated across the cavern. She saw movement as Angela emerged from a doorway in the back, cloaked in an oversized white blouse and trousers, drawn by the distress in her beau’s words. The blonde lowered her head and approached her, but the tumult in Amélie’s eyes looked entirely alien to her. As Amélie towered over Angela, she didn’t soften as she usually did, but set her jaw.

“Where. Is she.” Amélie’s voice was calm, but seemed to rend her in half. Shame clasped at Angela’s heart, but her beau, in all honesty, seemed to view her as completely irrelevant to her current quest. She wildly looked around for the phantom.

“Hello, LaCroix.”

Moira stepped forward as Angela had, almost illuminated like a centerpiece, appearing without guise for the first time. She still wore her black cloak, but her face was carved in sharp relief. Her face was calm, and she gazed at the vicomte with half-lidded eyes.

Amélie almost writhed when she saw her, her face twisting with disbelief and agony. “It was _YOU_.” Her grip was so tight on her sword that Olivia could see her joints in white relief, outlined by pink. Olivia stepped forward and softly placed a hand on her arm, but Amélie whipped it away from her, without breaking eye contact with the phantom. “I thought you were _dead_. I thought I had taken care of you. But it was foolish to think such dark magic would be vanquished by mere _fire_.”

Angela’s eyes snapped back and forth between Moira and Amélie, disoriented and terrified by the mounting aggression. Olivia, whose face had fallen, despairing, took her friend’s hand, placing her other on top of it. Memories of this rage in Amélie’s eyes flashed before her, and she felt a sharp, pained fear, though a matching fear of failing to stop her loomed, too.

“Now, Amélie, aren’t we overreacting some?” Moira’s bitterness was tangible, and she cut her eyes, condescending. Honey seemed to drip from her words, but her eyes glowed in contrast, eerie and dark. “Are you going to incite a riot again? Grab your torches and pitchforks?”

“You ruined my _life_ , O’Deorain.” The vicomte thundered. Angela and Olivia both witnessed the rare flicker of hurt, and possibly even regret as it flashed through the vicomte’s eyes. The caricature of her was being drawn. She had always valued a reasonable, level-headed leadership and the dredging up of the most devil-may-care decision she had ever made ripped open old scars.

Moira’s face twisted as a sudden burst of miserable laughter came to her. “You have _no idea_ what that means.” She paused, smirking and examining her nails. 

Amélie’s face was grey and almost weak for a moment, but the steel in her expression awakened with a new fury as she perceived her own weakness. Olivia was amazed that her glare did not strike the phantom dead.

“Anyways, haven’t I paid more than my share of restitution for your lovely dancing career? We all experience loss, my dear. You’ve even moved on. Look at your life. How you are with that girl.” The phantom’s strange eyes fell noticeably on Olivia and not Angela, which caused Olivia to pale and her heart to stumble.

Moira’s flippant answer struck Amélie, who in this moment was less keen to the details, and she roared, surging forward to swing at the phantom, but Moira ducked out of the way with an unnatural swiftness, accompanied by a slight violet swirl.

“Now, now, Amélie….”

The vicomte whipped her head around, stunned by this witchcraft. Angela watched, paralyzed, a sigh of relief as she saw Moira escape. This had been a secret shown only to her, one of the side effects of decades of research. A scrapped concept that Moira had to live with forever. Alchemy always required a trade, it was both a concrete transaction, a measured, equivalent exchange, as well as a genie in a bottle, full of riddles and guile, requiring exact phrasing or will promise a dirty trick. Moira’s angel remembered her knowing eyes as she shared that the years had instructed her of the exact diction, when to bargain, when to spend, but had also stripped her of everything, even her physical connection to reality, except for her objective of healing her niece. The vulnerability had made the phantom completely visible to her angel. The delicate lines reaching from the corners of her eyes. The callous on her left hand from dragging the chalk. The dryness that sometimes brushed her lips.

Moira seemed have forgotten this ability. She blinked several times, staring at her hands, but looked up with a smirk so slight it was almost imperceptible. The vicomte, wild eyed, twirled around and lunged at her again, colliding with the maze of glassware, which shattered loudly and showered Angela and Olivia with the shards. Angela cried out in fear at the crash, but Moira, once again, whisked herself out of the way. 

Amélie was panting, not from exertion but from the force of her ire. “But now you curse my opera. That chandelier could have killed someone. Now you curse and endanger my fiancée with your black magic.”

Moira laughed again. “I’ve done nothing of the sort. All this happened naturally.” This time, Amélie’s blade struck Moira, but a strange violet color caused the vicomte’s grip to wither, sending the sword clattering to the ground. Amélie’s eyebrows shot up, and she clasped her hands into fists.

“Anyways, just because you burned it to the ground doesn’t mean you own it. You already thought it best to disintegrate my home and my decades of work for my niece. I escaped, but with what? Nothing. You escaped, but with nearly everything intact. So I’ve just been utilizing what is mine.”

The vicomte snarled at her, bending to grasp her sword again. “It is _not_ yours. Who are you to play God? Over this opera? Over the elements? Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

Moira just stood and stared at the vicomte knowingly. “I’m playing God? Now who’s the one who controls everything in her life? ….I mean. I guess you are no god if you fail to kill someone as insignificant as I am.”

The vicomte stood and thrust forward, more agile, finally catching the phantom. She held the blade to Moira’s throat, while Moira just smirked back at her. Amélie lifted her arm. “....I won’t fail this time.”

“STOP!!”

Angela was suddenly between them and pushed them apart, tears streaming down her face. The tearing that had overcome her heart these past months was now reversed, more of a compression as the violence broke out in front of her. Both of her heroes had stepped out of their sunbeams and into the mire. She did not care what happened as she dove between the two. The blade struck her shoulder, and she cried out. The blood instantly soaked through her blouse.

Moira and Amélie both shook, separating as their angel fell on front of them. Nothing else seemed to matter now. Pénélope herself had been overlooked in the fervor of the contest, the waves of voices, the stringing of the bow, the art of brandishing it, the long-awaited climax. All of this although she was the whole intent of the contest. She had prayed for Artemis to slay her as she faced the horrible decision and she had thought she’d been spurned until now. The vicomte's voice caught in her throat as she, the first suitor, the named one, the knight in shining armor, watched her princess’ trust torn asunder. Ulysses watched his one hope, his long awaited return, shatter at his own hand. His own wretched, twisted hand. Angela curled up, more from the alarm than the pain, visibly shaking, but when her beaux gestured to her, she waved both their hands away. The vicomte softened, averting her gaze in shame. The phantom bit her lip, but weakened her stature. It was Olivia who could lunge after Angela and cradle her to her chest, pressing her sleeve to the wound.

The blonde sniffed, suddenly aware of the spotlight on her, pausing a moment. “What… _is_ this….?”

The vicomte watched her for a moment, sympathy for Angela melting her resolve. The blood seeping from beneath Olivia’s hand disturbed her beyond repair. How could she have done this? She knelt by her side, lowering her head. At the very least, she wanted to confess to her belle. To let her know what happened. Her voice was quiet. “This….this is the alchemist who was the primary public enemy years ago. Her black magic caused half a block of the city to explode.” Her voice dripped with contempt, but also a deep pain.

Angela looked down for a moment, but looked back up at Moira, almost pleading. The room seemed to begin spinning. The people looking down at her lost their faces, blurry shadows.

Moira’s heart fell as she gazed at Angela. A guilt poured into her as she saw the destruction in front of her, the pain on her angel’s face. Her eyes deadened, there was no more hiding, no more slipping away. “....Yes. It’s true. I was close to a breakthrough for Emily. But….the materials were very unstable.” Her arm shifted in her sleeve, stinging threads weaving through her wrist and fingers.

Angela’s eyes fell towards the motion. “Your hand.” Moira silenced the motion and flattened it against her side.

Moira inhaled and exhaled deeply. “....then. I found them. Amélie and Olivia, knocked out in the tunnels. So I applied first aid. Amélie did not wake up before she was taken home, but. Her leg was badly twisted. And her face had….the most tremendous wound.” She didn’t make eye contact at all, unsure why, but the words came tumbling forth.

Amélie was arrested by a current of shock. She had no idea of what Moira had done after the explosion. Her paradigm of the laughing villain shook. The demon incarnate shrunk and paled down to an exhausted caretaker, wounded too. Ash in her red hair and grey eyelids. The mismatched eyes across from her were full of regret. Amélie’s eyes flickered to the side, and her pulse gradually slowed.

“....I used what I had left of what I made for Emily to keep her alive….and Emily’s balm somehow shielded me from injury beyond my hand. But I could never come remotely close to making it again.” The pain radiated from Moira’s last statement, and she lowered her head. Angela reached and took her hand into hers.

The vicomte’s face was grey. She had no idea the sacrifice this stranger made. Her words lost their belligerence. “This was a major danger to the public. The explosion left everyone in a frenzy. Abominable magic. Another reason that I do admit….having to give up my ballet position upset me. And then….I burnt down the lab.”

A memory came to Angela, and Amélie was right. The fateful night years ago was such a commotion for weeks. The city had found the cause of the explosion and could focus their wrath, their retribution for their losses, on a singular target. The pillar of smoke whirled upward from the city, and Angela could see it from her window. The martyr’s pyre. She crept down the stairs, filled with a morbid curiosity. In fact, she was able to see the figure as she stole away. As Angela descended the stairs, through the intermittent windows, she watched. First she was four blocks away, then three, then one, bending over to clutch her arm. But something drew Angela to her, though opening the door should have filled her with fear.

Moira’s eyes cut sideways. The event felt like it happened the night before, but also an eternity ago. She felt she had aged several lifetimes. “....the crowd had the intention of killing me. And burning my home. I lost all my work. And my status. I had to flee. And she just builds this atop of where my house stood. But it’s true. I’ve endangered this place. And you, Angela.” Her angel’s name was carved with great care.

Angela was in despair. Her tears soaked into Olivia’s shirt. Olivia tucked her under her chin and pet her fingers through her hair. Angela still held Moira’s hand while she took Amélie’s hand into her other. Amélie and Moira both stared at her with such sorrow, defeated. They both had been unable to string the bow and strike the target.

Angela finally sat up, her face hardening to stone. “Both of you are to blame.” Her voice emerged steely, pushing past her tears. The show of violence had deeply shaken her. She suddenly stood up, the sleeve saturated with blood now, and abruptly left the room. Olivia glanced back at Amélie, then rushed after Angela, worried for her wound.


	23. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emily reacts. Angela reels, then corners Olivia.

Emily was unsure what to do about her aunt. She knew she was going through an incredible struggle right now and she wanted to help, but Moira was somebody who was always secretive about her own thoughts and experiences. Their relationship had historically been the distance between a guardian and a child, where she looked up to her aunt and trusted her decisions as strong and wise, for what was what she knew. But Emily was an adult now. She was perceptive, and her aunt had less of a safety net than she previously had. Emily could see where she was vulnerable, even beyond the veil Moira put over herself. And although Emily didn’t want it to be true, the years apart had placed further distance between them. More than usual, this time she’d felt a strange hesitation about leaving for the weekend with Lena, but her aunt had reassured her, as she typically did, to go and enjoy herself.

Lena and Emily had gone to see _Pénélope_ the night where Angela had mysteriously left between acts. Emily had laughed aloud when she saw Lena spring up and point at the box, wordless with excitement. “I-it’s the phantom!” Her date, short in stature, grasped the seat in front of her and leaned forward to see better. And Emily turned her head. It was indeed her aunt standing at the railing, and anyone in the audience who craned their neck would be able to see her.

Emily was alarmed at first at Moira’s bizarre behavior, but as she studied her face, she saw the look of peace wash over her, even how her shoulders and posture relaxed. And clearly, the healing force of Angela’s voice affected Moira, but the impact seemed much deeper even than that over Lena. The intensity between Angela and Moira was nearly tangible. Emily worried for her aunt in that Angela was a rather risky sweetheart to have, but the captivation between the two of them seemed to have a force beyond either of them. Emily valued her aunt’s happiness over public appearance. She had seen her aunt struggle for so long, all she wanted was a separate, fulfilling happiness for her.

This was the most stunning performance of this song that Angela had given. The distance between her and Moira seemed to be pulled together, the air taut, consuming the audience. Moira was the image incarnated of Ulysses as Pénélope sang to him in the distance. Angela made Pénélope’s suffering with hope and longing so real. Usually Emily could be able to melt into the bliss she felt in Lena beside her, but this time her mind kept wandering to her aunt.

The act ended and the curtain fell. Lena and Emily were absorbed into the crowd’s euphoria, swept into a booming standing ovation. As the applause subsided, Lena leaned into Emily and kissed her cheek. Emily beamed and squeezed her hand, absorbed into Lena’s bliss. 

As they sat, Lena grinned. “The phan’om! ‘Ow exciting! I thought she was gone. She seemed glad this time though ‘n not so angry. Happy ‘bout that, for sure.”

Emily smiled. “Me too. It was especially good this time!”

A thought nagged at her, though. She glanced up at the vicomte’s box. It was empty now. Emily stood. “One minute, Lena. I’ll be back.”

Her date nodded graciously. “Want me to come with you?”

“Aw, it’s okay. It’ll just be a minute.” Emily smiled reassuringly and stood, making her way across the row of seats.

Emily stood in the lobby for a moment, getting her bearings. It was rather deserted except for a small crowd at the far end. She didn’t see Moira. A small hope had sparked in her that she could catch her as she left, but it appeared she had already cached herself away. Even if she had caught her, she was unsure what she would say to her. After a brief pause, as Emily turned to return to the auditorium, she noticed movement from the direction of the back hallway. To her surprise, Angela, juggling her skirts, was rushing from the corridor that led backstage to that which led to the furnace room. Emily blinked several times. She would give them some privacy, then.

When it became clear that Angela had disappeared and the rest of the performance had to be cancelled, Emily had feigned surprise. She did not tell even Lena that she knew where Angela had gone.

x-x-x-x-x

The sight of the broken glass struck fear into Emily’s heart. Horrible images came to her mind. A blinding white fire that she couldn’t look at directly. A deafening high pitch of the pressure within the glass. The blackened walls and graphite air. The ringing, the eternal ringing. Had it exploded? Did it hurt anybody? “Aunt Moira!” She rushed as quickly as she could into the room, shuffling her cane forward.

Her aunt was there, kneeling amongst the shards, in the midst of sweeping them up. Emily could feel how Moira noticeably changed her tone from a dark rust to a much lighter color before she replied. “Emily! It’s alright, I’m fine.” Only an ounce of fatigue shone through her mirage.

Emily walked towards her, concerned and skeptical. “Did it explode?”

Moira held up her hand. “Use caution, it’s sharp.” She kept sweeping up the shards around her. “And no, my dear. I’m just clumsy.” She laughed to herself, holding one hand to her face. “My past is catching up to me, is all.”

Emily looked down at her aunt’s hand, which trembled as much as ever. “Aunt Moira….” A pool of sadness collected in her throat. “Here, let me help you.” She grasped the broom and took it from her quivering hand. To her surprise, Moira let her.

But she remained quiet. Emily pressed further, taking a risk. She would be genuinely surprised if she got an answer. “What do you mean, your past is catching up to you?”

Moira’s face grew more serious, unable to slip away from this scrutiny. “The vicomte came here.” Her voice was quiet. She pressed her fingertips to her brow and shut her eyes.

“What!” Emily whipped herself sideways to face her aunt. “What did she do…?” She was speechless at how flippant Moira was about this. The vicomte was clearly a threat, and quite a blue fire to be toying with. “She’s the one who…?”

Moira nodded, but her expression seemed rather serene. Emily stared at her for a moment, then shuffled nearer and lightly wrapped her arms around her. Moira stiffened in surprise for a moment, then gave in, leaning her head against Emily’s. Emily blinked, not expecting such softness, but was glad. She brushed her hand up and down her aunt’s trembling arm. “We should probably leave here, then?”

Moira straightened, returning to her work. “I don’t think it matters any longer.”

“Aunt Moira.” Emily’s voice grew steely suddenly. Her aunt turned to her, blinking in surprise at her niece’s firmness. Emily softened in response, as surprised as Moira was. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.” She paused, growing even gentler. “....I appreciate what you do. But I’m not a baby anymore. Maybe I can help….”

Moira stared at her for a moment and Emily was unsure of what she’d done. But Moira shut her eyes and almost smiled. “....You’re right.” She stood up, went to empty her dustpan, then returned to Emily, taking both her hands into hers. She led Emily to a chair, then sat across from her.

“We likely have to leave. I’m unsure. The vicomte knows the whole truth now. She….is unhappy to say the least. But there is a miniscule chance she might think better of me. As for Angela....” Moira’s face darkened. Emily squeezed her hand. The love her aunt felt for Angela was tangible and passionate, but incredibly gentle. She showed it in such a tiny change of expression. “LaCroix and I showed the extent of our bitterness toward each other.”

Emily leaned over and wrapped her arms around her aunt. “Angela will understand that it was an accident.” She felt Moira nod sadly. “Anyways, I imagine she was probably most shocked by Amélie’s behavior.”

Moira was quiet, averting her eyes, but Emily knew she was right. She released her aunt, then said, “Let’s make you some tea.”

x-x-x-x-x

“Angela….” Olivia trailed her friend all the way back to her house, but Angela refused to address her. The blood continued to seep down her sleeve as she marched home but she simply ignored it, even though the pain pulsed through her.

“Angela, we need to take care of your arm….” Olivia had to half-run to keep up. “Angela.”

Angela ascended the stairs to her door, abruptly opened it, then slammed it before Olivia could enter. Olivia knocked on the door. “Angela!” She huffed loudly, balling her hands into fists. She knew her friend was upset, and had right to be, but she just wanted to take care of her. Nobody knew how to process the sudden deluge of the past. Olivia did admit that she was nervous about facing Amélie again, as it had unleashed the emotions that the vicomte had bound up long ago, after years of struggling with them. Olivia had been witness to those years of struggle and the ultimate quarantine. She was her perpetual ally, but unable to be close enough to truly reinforce her. So now Amélie was the bursting dam, and the surge had struck Angela and swept her downstream. Olivia felt she was trying to mend both of them from the seat of an ancient wooden rowboat.

With what might have been against her better judgment, Olivia stepped back from the door, looked up at the windows, and threw a stone at what she knew was Angela’s bedroom. There was no response. Since she had already crossed this threshold of social acceptability, Olivia proceeded to throw several more stones until finally, with a angry flourish, Angela opened her window.

Olivia suddenly didn’t know what to say, faced with Angela’s stern expression. “Ang….” She heard a loud sigh and the window shut before she could say anything more. Her body somewhat collapsed with the frustration and her shoulders sagged. The spiraling, her old friend, kept trying to wind her mind around its finger, but Olivia, ever staunchly, blocked its attack. She felt it growing ever stronger.

She was lucky, however. The front door was pulled open to reveal Angela’s tear-stained face and quivering shoulders. Olivia let her friend collapse against her. “Shh….” She pet her hair back gently. “Let’s take care of your arm.”

The dizziness beset Angela and had prevailed over her stubborn independence. Her friend set her on her bed, beginning to peel off the blouse. “It's Moira’s, huh?” Olivia realized too late that her comment resembled a judgment. In reality, she was only reacting to how she’d never seen the garment before. Angela, shirtless and with such gore, bent and reddened, ashamed.

“It’s ok. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.” Angela just looked away in response, her blushing failing to subside. Olivia continued gently, blotting the wound and tossing the shirt aside. After she cleaned the gash, she wrapped it up. “There.” She sat back as the silence resonated throughout the room. “....Here.” She stood and walked to the wardrobe, browsing for a moment. Then she offered Angela a white sweater, which Angela accepted. 

Olivia sat beside her friend again. “....She’s a decent person.” After a moment she realized she hadn’t said who she meant. “....Moira.” The woman was very odd and had little in common with Olivia, but she knew that she never intended anyone any harm. “....she would do anything for someone she cares about.”

Angela nodded, looking away. Olivia knew this topic wouldn’t thrive. But an anxious thought buzzed around her, ringing in her ear. She couldn’t help but break the silence once again.

“....Amé didn’t mean to hurt you, you know.” Olivia’s voice was very weak and she hid much of her expression. But Angela knew her well enough to read the distress in her eyes.

“I know.” Angela sat hunched over, toying with the hem of the sweater with her thumb. “...but I didn’t know….” Her face crumbled. “....I didn’t know she led that riot. I didn’t know she would kill someone. I-I never knew she was anything but….” She broke into a sob, and Olivia pressed her gently to her shoulder.

Olivia’s heart was broken. “....She….she. It’s complicated….She lost so much that it infected her, like a virus in her brain….I always knew it wasn’t the ‘real her’. Something else showed in her eyes other than her sensible self. ….and it isn’t her refusing to take responsibility for it. She regrets what she’s done. She….she didn’t know that Moira cared.... I,uh, I failed to tell her Moira had cared for us. Was horrified of the destruction her science had done. Amélie thought she was just flippant….and even then, Amélie was witness to the horrible impact her social power had. And since, she strove to always be judicious. ….Since she was young she always said she wanted to run her estate reasonably. She hated how her family had done it before….” She was acutely aware all of a sudden that she was rambling endlessly.

Angela had turned to look at her, her expression indescribable, intently watching Olivia’s mouth as she spoke. “....you really love her so much.”

Olivia stopped her speech suddenly, almost coughing as it collected in her throat. Her face bloomed into a deep red. “....I….”

Angela would have giggled at Olivia if she had been less despairing. Amélie was the only person that Olivia would ever show anxiety about. Her respect spread to so few people, but was clearly astronomical for her. Olivia, who was naturally a rather irreverent person, reacted to so few situations with gravity, but when they concerned the vicomte, they had her full attention.

The smallest sad smile appeared on Angela’s face. Her trust for her beau stretched beyond this news. She was learning of the greatest mistake of the vicomte’s model life, and she was stricken and horrified, but at the same time….It was strange. Knowing that even the great LaCroix could be flawed was refreshing in a way. She knew that the gentleness she saw was not false. It was always tempered and private, thoughtful. But what she hated was how the whole scenario completely shaded Amélie in a new mysterious color. Angela had already been so far away from her, but now it seemed like oceans. A long directionless voyage, a spinning compass. A realization was coming to her. So she opened her mouth. “....I love Amélie, but. I could never know her like you do….even…. _Love_ her like you do.”

Olivia didn’t react immediately, but then she abruptly froze with shock. It took her a minute to recover. “....W-well Ang, it’s just me. I-I’m an asset to her household. An act of benefaction brought someone like me into i--”

Angela scowled, almost angry. “ _Bull_ shit.” 

Olivia stopped, mouth gaping. “I….” Then she looked away. 

Angela decided to leave her be. She patted her shoulder and sat up, her face unreadable. “Thank you, Liv. My shoulder feels better now.”


	24. A Declaration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olivia, then Angela, visit the vicomte's office.

The air felt thin at the vicomte’s palace, the veil of the mirage about to tear. Amélie felt her sense of order had been beautiful but so precarious, like balancing china on a flimsy tray. But now it was ready to tumble to the ground and shatter loudly so the whole world could see. The vicomte sat at her desk, leaning face down, her arms cradling her head. She felt like she was surrounded by a void, like a black hole had consumed all she ever built. It was almost a curse when she opened her eyes to see the room still where she had left it, with the lights off.

A knock on the door wandered through the air to her ears. She just grunted in response, not moving at all. Olivia entered quietly, approaching the desk in the dusky light from the window.

“Liv.” The vicomte’s voice was wavering, without its general iron underpinnings. She still did not look up, looking directly down at the wood of her desk.

Olivia nodded to her, eyes lax, then leaned forward and set her hand on her shoulder. For once the vicomte was not wearing her jacket, and her shoulders were only obscured by a loose cotton tunic. The touch was thus more affectionate than she intended, but Olivia still brushed her thumb across.

“Liv. Do you think I’ve lost her regard for good….?”

The words dripped with an inky fear, alien coming from Amélie, but strangely familiar. Olivia set her elbows on the table, leveling herself with her friend, trying to avoid looking down at her from above. “No.”

Amélie met Olivia’s gaze, her golden eyes wide, somewhat startled by the certainty in her tone. She blinked, then shut her mouth, realizing it had dropped open.

Olivia repeated herself. “No.”

Amélie’s eyes flickered away towards the window. “....I didn’t know she did that.” Olivia kept her elbows on the table but sat up thoughtfully. Amélie continued. “....that she gave that to us.”

The cannon fire striking the vicomte’s ship seemed to shake the whole room. The dim lighting allowed for vertigo. Olivia bit her lip. “I know…. It’s not your fault.”

“Liv….” There was pain in the vicomte’s expression. “It is, though. The violence was out of hand. I don’t know what possesses me. I feel reasonable until….I realize what happened. Then I pretend it was what I intended….for some reason I always do.”

The darkness seeped into the air, dark like molasses. Olivia tilted her head to the side. “You generally are a sensible person, though. Everybody looks up to you.”

“But that’s why it’s so dire. I tried to _kill_ her.” The franticness was creeping into her voice, even though her brow and mouth were made of stone.

“But you _didn’t_. And you don’t have to live with that.” Olivia maintained the firmness to her voice.

The vicomte glanced back up at her friend, then looked away. She did not answer, but Olivia could feel the tension ebb somewhat. The silence bloomed in the small space between them, unfurling petals, but she was not afraid of it. There was always a certain amount of silence with Amélie, and it was familiar, so Olivia let it grow wild around her.

A knock came from the door, and Olivia stood up, standing back from the desk. Amélie blinked, startled, then hummed her acceptance. The door opened, and Angela stepped inside.

Olivia smiled at her softly but with an element of defeat. Angela did not miss the vague hollowness in her eyes. As Olivia moved to leave the room, Angela brushed her hand across hers as she passed. The other paused, shutting her eyes serenely, then shut the door behind her.

Angela stepped toward her beau, who smiled gently at her as she approached, but for once Angela could see the fatigue and worry in her eyes. She knew that this visit was a surprise to her.

“Hello, Amélie.” Angela tilted her head and smiled, prompting the pretty lines to appear from the corners of her eyes. There was an ounce of somber nature to her tone, though. Her hair tumbled to one side, the gold leaf glinting in the pale light. She leaned forward, taking the vicomte’s hand into hers.

“Angela….” Amélie smiled, gently stroking her hand. She watched her belle, her eyes almost sad. For once they were not meeting in the sky. The angel was descending to her, as she lay in the ruins of her empire. Her sword lay apart from her, broken, and her helmet had split, revealing her face, streaked with soot. The touch made her nervous, and it was the first time Angela had seen this response from her. Amélie was eyeing Angela’s shoulder, where the bandage lay concealed.

Amélie stood and walked around her desk. She held Angela’s hand to her face and bowed her head humbly, kneeling. “I am deeply sorry. I deeply endangered you. And….injured you. My fury was misplaced. I have wronged both you and O’Deorain.”

From where she knelt, Amélie could only see the fabric of Angela’s skirt. As the shame from the admission washed over her, she felt the softest touch as Angela laid her hand on her head, brushing a few stray hairs back. “It’s alright now.”

Amélie almost melted into her hand. Somehow this touch brought a profound healing, almost a youth, back to her heart. Like turning back time. Angela grasped her hand and lifted it. The fallen knight stood before her princess.

However, her crystal gaze tilted downward, a gravity coming to her face. Her decision had been very painful, a deep stinging cleansing. The vicomte understood before the words came. She shut her eyes, brushing her thumb across the palm of Angela’s hand. Tears came to Angela’s eyes, and she inhaled deeply to brace herself.

“I love you very much, Amélie. But you deserve a depth of love that I could never give you.”

The suitor acquiesced and bowed his head to his Pénélope, his aim for all these years. His princess. His grip loosened around her hand but held a secret hope that they could remain touching for one more moment.

“....There is someone who loves you so dearly I could never contend.”

The vicomte started at the unexpected addition, blinking. She saw that Angela’s expression was soft and followed her gaze towards the door. Angela felt her beau inhale as the understanding came to her, a small quiver in her grip, then unwinding of her tension as she relaxed her shoulders.

Angela let go of her hand and stepped back.

Pénélope wanted to bow. This suitor had been the most gracious. A gorgeous marble statue who never broke, who never cheated, even in the cyclones, even against vicious beasts. But she could not see him from how far up in the sky he was. He was so close to divinity, the highest pillar. She had not seen him in his humble days, still a noble nature, but the construction had not yet begun for his ascent to the heavens. And she finally realized that was essential to truly knowing him. Her Ulysses was not made of marble. He was not cast in gold. He had angered the gods. Maybe both of them could string the bow, but how could the contest be fair when the vicomte shot from so far away? Up on the pillar, the clouds would obscure her sight. Ulysses could stand squarely on the ground and hold the bow steady, and even had the privilege of looking to see if Pénélope had turned her head to watch, then take his shot.

But what she did instead was step forward and embrace her Amélie, gave the smallest of polite curtsies, then turned to leave.

x-x-x-x-x

Now having shed her longtime shell, Angela made her way to the operahouse. Tears streamed down her face. This shell had been her home for so long that the missing weight felt more like a loss than freedom of a burden. But every way she looked at it, this was the decision she wanted to make.

She opened the grand doors, walked down the hall, and descended to the catacombs. She opened the hidden door, her heart alight with an anxious racing. But the room she faced, although not empty at all, had clearly been abandoned.


	25. Denouement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Each heroine discovers her fate.

The cavern seemed profoundly cold to Angela. The fire was a blue stack of ash. The river’s roar was a deafening static. _What?_ Angela froze, paralyzed, then all of a sudden her knees melted, and she nearly collapsed to the floor. The last few months whirled around her like ghostly sequences from a dream. _What?_  
On the table ahead of her, she saw a document, rolled up carefully and wrapped in a ribbon. Beneath it lay a familiar envelope. Angela’s breath caught in her throat. It took several moments for her to be able to move, but then she pulled out the letter, her hands shaking.

 _À mon ange,_  
_I am grateful that you’ve allowed me to hear your voice._  
_I realize how selfish I’ve been to prioritize my own aims over what’s best for you._  
_All I’ve done thus far is complicate your life when all you deserve is happiness._  
_Your voice belongs to you._  
_I just wanted to let you know how much you’ve meant to me, even through my self indulgence._  
_Thank you for all you’ve given me._  
_Goodbye, Angela._  
_Always yours,_  
_Votre malédiction_

A teardrop fell and struck the paper, obscuring the scrawl of the word “ _malédiction_ ”, sending the ink into miniature cyclones within its dome. Angela’s breath was stolen, washed down the river, a corpse to be discovered too late. _What?_

Angela lifted the rolled document and slid off the ribbon, barely able to hold it, her hands were shaking so badly. She was outside in the snow without a coat, clutching snow. The deed. A small sheet of paper slid out of the packet. “ _For Angela LaCroix._ ” Moira’s signature was scrawled across it.

“No….” The static from the rushing river tried to crush Angela’s skull from both sides, a vice. Once she was able to move again, she shivered. There was only one desperate idea left in her head. She turned around and strode out of the room.

x-x-x-x-x

After Angela left, Olivia came back to the vicomte’s office with a tray of tea she’d set to boil for her. Both of their frayed nerves needed the warm embrace. But as she looked up at the vicomte’s face as she still stood in front of her desk, Olivia quickly set down the tray. “Amé….?”

Amélie did not move, her body fully carved of marble. However, as Olivia scanned her, she saw how her hands were shaking. “Oh Amé….” She took her hands gently in hers. The vicomte’s hands were cold and blue. Olivia gently stroked her palms with her thumbs. “Let’s sit down.”

She led Amélie to her desk chair and set her in it, then poured her a cup of tea. “It’s cassis, your favorite.” The vicomte’s hands clasped the cup as Olivia guided them, the cup in front of her.

“Liv.”

Olivia turned to look at her face. She was patient, it was clear that the words were slow to sift in Amélie’s mind.

“Angela has broken it off.” The vicomte’s words were each cast in iron, the delivery careful and deliberate like the heavy objects they were.

Olivia, for once, was truly stunned. She almost dropped the teapot as she poured her cup. She had witnessed Angela’s realizations but had no idea her friend would do something like this. She looked down. Amélie had placed her hand under the teapot to steady it for her.

“I’m….speechless. I’m truly sorry, Amé.” Olivia’s answer was heartfelt and gentle, an unexpected but adept response from her.

Amélie’s lip turned up on one side, downplaying her personal chaos. Her chest felt heavy. It was a long, grand window for her to have to fasten, closing the shutters. She had to squint as the bright light was obscured. The dimness returned. It was ancient, but familiar, and Amélie was no longer afraid of it. Angela was always a good companion. The years spent were good. But she shut her eyes.

“It’s okay, Liv.”

Olivia blinked several times. “There’s no pressure to recover so quickly, Amé. Just drink your tea.” She patted her shoulder, wanting to give support but nervous to touch her.

“In a moment.”

Olivia was once again surprised, but she didn’t respond, just watching her friend. An idea, a memory, came to the vicomte. Amélie set her teacup on the tray, then grasped the other and set it beside the first. After a breath, she leaned forward and rested her head on Olivia’s shoulder. She first felt Olivia’s heartbeat accelerate and the initial shock, but then how she turned her head down toward hers and how she breathed in and out. Olivia shyly raised her hand and brushed back the hairs that strayed from Amélie’s head.

After a moment, Olivia heard a small snicker, then all of a sudden Amélie lifted Olivia onto the chair with her in one fluid motion. Olivia’s heart lurched with shock and she felt beads of sweat forming at her temples. She could feel Amélie breathing alongside her. 

“Thank you, Liv.”

Olivia was almost unable to respond. Her voice was breathy. “For what?”

The vicomte simply shook her head. She waited as Olivia’s body gradually grew less stiff and eventually relaxed. “That’s better.”

Olivia almost laughed. Amélie saw the slight smirk on her face and cut her eyes at her. But then she shut them and tucked Olivia’s head against her shoulder. She leaned backwards in the chair and crossed her legs, her riding boots utop her desk and her face beside Olivia’s neck. Her fingers traced along Olivia’s jawline, turning her face toward hers. Then she kissed her.

x-x-x-x-x

Angela vacillated between encouraging her racing heart to stay strong and willing it to crash, allowing for her body to collapse and clatter against the cobblestones. Then the desperation would cease. But that was not what she truly wanted, and her heart knew it. So it pressed on.

She had hailed the fiacre frantically, operating off one vague memory to which she clung desperately. After a performance, Captain Oxton, amongst her delightful chatter, had commented that her Emily had arrived via riverboat. So now Angela descended to the docks, risking a tumble into the dark water as she rushed.

Pénélope looked among the boats. She felt as if she had spent years sifting, sifting, the travelers coming and going, blurring together. But none of those eternal sands were her love. Soon the sand would swallow the waters, and maybe the whole city would be buried, a desert now. But even then, she would remain faithful.

But which? _Which?_ Angela looked between the boats. She squinted as the sun reflected into her eyes with a harsh glare. The docks were beginning to clear as passengers boarded. She knew she did not have time to climb up the escalier, clamor across the deck, and search through the passengers of each boat. A panic welled in her throat as she looked between them. An aide collecting tickets stood at each gate, and Angela had the thought she could ask each one the destination of the boat, but realized the journey may not be direct. She could miss her through her process of elimination.

And so, in the usual human way, Angela simply froze in place, though she knew her chance was fading as each second pulsed by. The gods were laughing. Maybe Neptune swallowed her Ulysses after all. Pénélope, often criticized for her stalwart faith in the fortitude of her husband at sea, for her lack of practicality, for her idealism, stood, beginning to crumble, tears in her eyes.

But then there was a gleaming, a ringing of metal struck. A helmet raised above a pair of dark eyes, a sword unsheathed and pointing. The goddess snickered and whispered in Pénélope’s ear as she was about to deteriorate. _Use your gift! Don’t waste my faith in you all this time with such a simple mind._ Laughter.

She returned to herself with an enormous gasp. She stood, her feet apart, and faced her audience as it bobbed there on the Seine. Pénélope’s hopeful song rose through her ribcage, nearly capsizing her heart, and escaped through her lips. Her heavenly voice carried over the docks and over the water. Its power was almost impossible, its beauty unearthly. The longing chorus, the stubborn refraining from grief, tumbled forth. Maybe Pénélope’s wait, her agony, had less than a day remaining.

x-x-x-x-x

She listened to the murmur of her companions. Emily was whispering to Lena, then Lena responded, stuttering, but trusting. Moira opened her eyes. Her niece stood at the open window, peeking through alongside Lena at the docks below. The breeze wandered around the room. Emily had shown great concern in allowing her aunt to travel alone when she felt this way. The two of them had been as gentle as possible, even as they insisted on accompanying her.

Ulysses, who thought his name was erased to history, blotted out in the violence, sat up. _What was that song?_ Maybe the perpetual battle rang in his ears. Maybe he hallucinated. Maybe his memory floated in the current, bottled up. Maybe one could die from heartbreak. But how could he hear an angel’s voice in hell? But alas it persisted, this familiar song.

“Aunt Moira!”

Emily had whipped around to face her. Moira felt like she was submerged in the bathtub, watching as her niece’s lips moved, but heard no other sound except for the voice. Maybe it was the last sound she would ever hear. She didn’t mind that. But almost in slow motion, she watched Emily break into a laugh, wrinkling her eyes, then come to her and tug on her arm.

“Come on.” Her niece was suddenly close to her, almost whispering. She smiled and pressed a hand to either side of Moira’s, then guided her to the door.

x-x-x-x-x

Pénélope shut her eyes as she sang, her task requiring the attention of all her senses. She was the remedy itself. The power of her voice made her feel that her ribcage would burst and her body would deteriorate, leaving only the golden light in its place.

But as she opened her eyes, everything else fell away, immediately forgotten. Throngs of people, staring or uncaring? Eternities gone by? Cities rising and falling? Maybe she was simply a constellation in space, as many of these characters became. No. Before her stood her Ulysses, crowning the escalier. Her desperate flight had succeeded. Her heart felt it had lived entire lives in his absence, aging, dying, being born again. But now it stopped. Maybe it wasn’t time rushing by, but time struck still.

Angela was drawn to the other woman, taking several steps toward her. They met at the last stair, and she almost hesitated as she reached for Moira’s hands, afraid another act of a god would come between them. But instead, they did meet, a classical painting, and she held both of Moira’s hands to her face.

Pénélope looked into Ulysses’ strange eyes, and the lines came to her. “I….am so lost in astonishment that I cannot find a single word. How can I know, after so many years, it is truly him?”

“Ask me what you will.” Ulysses gazed down at his angel, his eyes unmatching but holding her steady all the same. After a short pause, he continued. “War can ravage he who must abide for so long for the storm to pass. It is no wonder his old life cannot embrace him. Even with the help of Minerva he cannot return to the man he was before he set out. But he can say that he has thought of her ceaselessly. Just for this moment of her presence, which is enough to heal every wound.” 

Pénélope smiled, and Ulysses witnessed that somehow the brilliant light was even stronger. “Then let’s make it more than a moment.”

Ulysses’ eyes glittered, stroking his angel’s hands with his fingers. “If you want me.”

Angela laughed, breaking character. There would be more time to perform this later. There would be a way for all four of these integral parts of this operahouse to run it, together. She would make it so. She was known for such stubbornness.

“Of course I do!”

Ulysses smiled, gentle lines reaching from his eyes. He no longer had to scan the endless waves, no longer had to hear Neptune laugh. Here she was, his Pénélope, and she had waited all this time.

When Angela pulled out the deed, Moira waved it away with her hand. “....I don’t want it any longer. That place has been made into something grander than I could have made it. I’ll let her have this dream.”

Angela’s blue eyes saddened a moment. “....But you’ll at least stay. ....I love your play. I want to help you in your work for your niece.”

Moira’s eyes shut and she knit her brow, overwhelmed. “Of course.”

Angela held Moira’s hand to her lips. “Je suis ton ange.”

The phantom smiled, a serene look returning, and she was no longer a phantom at all. “Mon ange.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> I had no idea I would be able to complete a project of this caliber and I'm humbled that you stuck with it and read through the end, haha.  
> It may have called for an epilogue, but we all know how epilogues are prone to ruining the ending....so I left it there.  
> Much love to you,  
> Fallowfield
> 
>  
> 
> Hi everyone,  
> This is Tripower, the second author. Or more like the one who gave Fallowfield the premise and main plot ideas for the story. She is mostly the one who made it come alive (ugly sobbing).  
> Thank you to everyone who left a comment or loved the story. Phantom of the Opera was the first thing that came to my mind when I saw Moira (ahah) and I always imagined a story about her with Mercy. Fallowfield was kind to no end to help me bring that story to life. I am eternally thankful toward her for that (bear hug).  
> Thank you all again. We have another project planned. Maybe we will see you there (if I find the time to start writing it XD)!


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